I Believe I Can Fly
by FraidyCat
Summary: How much pressure is too much? A Charliecentric production. As if you didn't suspect that already.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: I Believe I Can Fly**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Those other people do.**…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 1**

Don left the vehicle running.

After he had careened to a stop as close to the Math & Sciences building as he could get, he simply threw open the driver's door and jumped out at a dead run. He left the SUV idling at the curb, barely thinking to apply the emergency brake as he got out.

He rammed through groups of onlookers in front of the building as if he were a tackle creating a path for his running back. At least one student sprawled to the cement in a cascade of books from the assault, but Don didn't care. At least, he wouldn't have cared, if he had even noticed.

He pulled open the glass door so hard it threatened to break off its hinges. Campus Security was milling about on the ground floor of the building, doing its best to try and maintain some form of order. Don's badge was displayed on his belt, and he easily got past them, into the stairwell that led all the way to the roof of the three-story building. Clusters of students and teachers dotted the way, looking frightened, speaking in hushed tones. As he took the stairs three-at-a-time, Don's heart constricted proportionately according to how close he got to the roof. Finally, out of breath, he reached the small landing and access door.

Two LAPD officers stood before it, blocking his way. One noticed his badge. "We haven't been told to expect FBI on this. It's a simple jumper."

Don wanted to shove him through the concrete. "He's my brother," he growled instead. "Let me out there."

The officers, both young, looked at each other. The youngest paled a little, and the older one looked back at Don. "The first officers on scene are out there, with some friend of the…your brother. He hasn't let anyone near him."

"He called me," Don tried to explain.

The officer looked hopeful. "He did? Your brother?"

Don shook his head impatiently. "Larry. His friend. Please. Let me try. I'm an FBI agent, it's not like I don't know what I'm doing."

The officer nodded once to his partner, who followed his lead as he stepped aside. Now that Don had access to the roof, and Charlie; now that he had taken five seconds to think; he put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. _This was his brother. His baby brother._ His knees almost buckled.

Finally, he twisted the knob and pushed through. Some part of him sensed the LAPD officers looking at him, some part of him registered Larry's whispered, _"Thank the Lord,"_ but most of him was focused on Charlie. His brother was almost directly opposite the door, arms outstretched, humming, walking the very edge of the flat roof as if it were a balance beam. Don swallowed painfully, and took a position about six inches closer to him than he had allowed Larry to come.

He called gently across the roof. "Charlie? Hey, Buddy. Can I come over and talk to you?"

Charlie had been looking at his feet, but at the sound of Don's voice he turned his head toward him and smiled. At the same time, one foot slipped and his arms flailed, and Don started running. Charlie had regained his balance before Don got five feet, and he held out his hands in a command for Don to stop. "Stay there! It isn't safe out here. Don't come any closer, Donnie. I mean it."

Years of training kicked in and Don was able to stop. He was almost close enough to reach Charlie, if he stretched his arms as far as he could. Almost. He tried to smile at him. "You're right, Charlie. Why don't you come over here? I'd like to talk to you."

Charlie blinked seriously at him for at least 30 seconds, then took one step towards him. "Just a little," he said. He smiled again, and it was disarmingly wide, and bright, frighteningly _Charlie._ "The thing is, Don…" He half-turned and waved an arm to indicate the air around him. "…I can fly. The Wright Brothers had the correct idea all along, their math just wasn't advanced enough. I've worked on the calculations, and I can do this. I'm glad you're here to witness my first flight."

Don's panic grew. "Don't you have to build some wings, or something? Come over here, and I'll help you."

Charlie frowned a little. "No. No wings." He suddenly looked like he was going to cry. "I just need to know where the sky starts. I think I can touch the sky from here, but I don't know where it starts." He tilted his head toward Larry. "_He_ won't tell me. Do you know, Donnie? When I reach as high as I can over my head, am I touching the sky?" He was demonstrating the posture, and leaning too close to the edge for Don.

He glanced at Larry briefly, then back at Charlie. What the hell had happened? Had Charlie been drugged, or something? When Larry had called him 15 minutes ago, catching Don on the way home from the office, he had only garbled that Charlie was on the roof, and Larry was afraid that he was going to jump. Don could still hear the horror in his voice, as he begged him to come to CalSci. He could still hear Larry's sob when he assured him he was only minutes away. There had been no explanations – maybe Larry didn't have any to give – and Don had no idea what they were all doing in this nightmare. In his ignorance, Don said exactly the wrong thing. "Buddy, please…I need your help on a case."

Charlie brought his arms down and wrapped them around his stomach protectively, battling some pain Don did not know about. "No…no…I can't do that anymore. I was wrong. I was too late."

Don mentally kicked himself. The last case Charlie had consulted on had gone sour fast. The outcome wasn't Charlie's fault. His calculations had been accurate, and certainly faster than they would have been coming from the in-house experts. It had just been one of those things. Two young children had been kidnapped, and the parents had waited too long to call the authorities. While Charlie's applications had eventually shown them where to look, what they had found there were only bodies. To make it worse, Charlie had identified the most likely suspect – and he had escaped the net they had thrown out for him. Nothing about the case had gone right.

Don rushed to reassure him. "That's not true, Charlie. You did your best, we all did. Sometimes it just doesn't work out."

Charlie's words started to speed up. He stammered a little. "I t-took too long," he repeated. "With, with that case. I took too long with Amita, too, and sh-she left. I th-threw away all that time with Mom, and couldn't finish, couldn't solve it…I can't do anything right. Dad wants to move out, I'm so horrible, and I c-can't find enough time to do wh-what you all want." His voice grew a little more desperate, twisting the knife in Don's heart. "Now I can't figure out where the sky is, and no-no one will help me…" He screamed, then, tilted his head back and screamed at the elusive sky whose origin he sought. _"WHY WON'T ANYONE HELP ME?"_

Don risked another step while Charlie wasn't looking. He was so close, now. "Charlie, Charlie," he soothed. "I want to help you, let me help you. Let me come get you. We'll go for a drink, and talk about it."

This time Charlie's mood bounced to giggling. He unwrapped his arms and began pirouetting around the edge of the roof as if he were an airplane. "Can't drink, Don, I'm flying tonight!" He stopped so close to the edge that his toes were hanging over the edge. He still held his arms out, and looked seriously at his brother. He spoke solemnly, as if he were telling him a secret. "I believe I can fly."

He turned his entire body toward the edge and started flapping his arms. Don strangled on a "No…", launched himself toward Charlie and grabbed the edge of his t-shirt.

It ripped away in his hands when Charlie stepped over the edge.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 2**

He was a small man, but Charlie's plummeting body weight almost pulled Don over the edge as well. The ripping t-shirt and a fast-thinking, fast-moving LAPD officer kept Don on the roof. The officer tackled him from behind and dragged him down hard; so hard that Larry, five feet away, heard a bone crack somewhere.

Don, head hanging slightly over the edge, didn't feel a thing. He was focused on the scrap of t-shirt, willing it to metamorphasize into his brother. The screams of the onlookers entered his senses dully, and then he didn't understand how it was that he was standing up. He couldn't put together the fact that the officers and Larry were helping him.

He peered over the edge, and wasn't sure he really saw what he was seeing, or if he just wanted to see it. There were fire fighter uniforms dotting the crowd, and a large, round, trampoline lay on the ground. Don swayed a little and grabbed at Larry, nearly pulling them both off the edge again. "Is that there?", he breathed.

Someone was pulling on his shirt, and he unwillingly stepped back. A voice he didn't recognize spoke into his ear. "They weren't quite in position, yet. He hit the edge of the trampoline – it broke his fall, but he bounced off. The EMTs are with him now. You should go down." Don turned in a daze, and saw an LAPD officer regarding him intently. Was this some kind of sick joke? He had seen Charlie step off the roof…_He had seen it. He would see it forever._

The officer saw his disbelief. "Sir, that's what the officers on the ground are telling me. Paramedics are working on him." At the same moment, Don felt as if he would vomit, pass out and jump off the roof himself, just to get to Charlie faster. He and Larry got hit at the same time, apparently. The physicist grabbed Don's arm, and Don screamed. Everyone on the roof froze, even though they had just started moving.

"Oh, dear." Larry was looking at Don's arm, and the discolored, swollen lump that didn't belong on his wrist. It was obvious in the late afternoon sun. "That must be the crack I heard. It looks like you need an EMT as well."

Don jerked his arm back and bit off another scream. He hugged his arm to his belly and started moving, again. He didn't care if the damn thing fell off. He had to get to Charlie. Later, he had no clear memory of going back through the door and down the stairs. Larry would tell him he fell down the last six, he was moving so fast, and almost broke his leg along with his arm, but Don didn't remember that. He was never even sure how he got past the police and Campus Security barrier in front of the building. The next thing he clearly remembered, after Larry grabbing his arm on the roof, was kneeling on the sidewalk about five feet from Charlie.

On the ground, just as on the roof, Don couldn't seem to get close enough to touch him.

The paramedics refused to acknowledge him, so Don watched a growing pool of blood under Charlie's head for as long as he could, then shifted to staring at Charlie's leg. The foot was pointing in the wrong direction. Once he had registered that, Don felt the bile rising again, and he re-focused on Charlie's arms. He saw an EMT shoving needles into one; another EMT putting a brace on the other. He watched silently while Charlie was gently turned onto a backboard, and encased in a cervical collar. At some point, the top of his head had been wrapped in gauze, and there was already a dark stain spreading throughout its weave, from an epicenter above Charlie's right eye. Don tried to take everything in. He didn't move, he didn't speak, until Charlie was lifted onto a stretcher and was headed away from Don, through the other side of the crowd.

He stood awkwardly. "FREEZE! FBI!", he shouted, because it was the first thing he thought of.

The two paramedics with the stretcher ignored him, but a fire fighter standing between Larry and the trampoline looked at him with sympathy. He called after the EMTs. "This guy is riding along. He's family."

All the way to the hospital, Don watched Charlie's face, and heard those words. He repeated them in his head. _I'm family, Charlie,_ he thought, ignoring a paramedic who was splinting his own wrist. He stared at his brother's closed eyes. _You're my family._ He wondered, briefly, how someone in his family could be in such pain, and he would not know it.

His thoughts were interrupted by staccato questions, to which he gave brief answers. Charlie. 32. No allergies. O-negative. He felt, as the ambulance slowed to enter the trauma entrance of the hospital, that those things did not say enough about Charlie. Those facts did not represent him well. The people working on him needed to understand how important he was. He reached out and touched the woman next to him, who turned her eyes from a monitor and looked at him. "He's good," Don said to her seriously. "He's a good man. We need him." The woman nodded silently as the vehicle screeched to a halt. The doors opened, hands reached inside, and Charlie was taken from him again.

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Don refused to be led to a treatment room himself until he made a phone call. He glowered at the nurse impatiently waiting for him, and sat in the triage chairs. He pulled out his phone.

Both pieces.

It had been broken, on the roof. As Don looked at it, he thought he might start to cry. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that his phone was broken, and he couldn't believe that he didn't know what to do about it. He was a friggin' FBI senior agent. He had a brain. He tried to remember. What did people do before cell phones?

He felt someone sit next to him, and barely registered a light touch on his good arm. He saw fingers taking the phone pieces out of his hand. "It's all right, Don. I'll take care of it."

Don looked up and blinked blearily at Larry. "You got here fast," he said stupidly.

Larry nodded. "The police brought me, and took my preliminary statement on the way." He glanced at Don's other arm, cradled against his stomach, again. "Go with this young lady and have your wrist attended," he ordered gently. "I phoned Megan. She's going to pick Alan up and bring him here."

Tears of gratitude sprang to Don's eyes before he could stop them. He stood hurriedly, so Larry wouldn't notice. Don brushed his eyes with the back of his good hand and looked at Larry long and hard before he finally walked off with the nurse. All the way to the treatment room, he thought about that word, the one the fire fighter had planted in his head:

_Family._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 3**

Don allowed a doctor to prod him for a while, and send him to x-ray. When the technician returned him to his treatment room, he sat there alone for a few minutes, waiting impatiently for the doctor to return. He didn't care about his stupid wrist, that could wait. But he wouldn't learn anything about Charlie, in here.

He had just stood to go back to triage and check with Larry, when the door opened and a nurse allowed his father to enter. Alan stopped just inside the door. She smiled at Don. "Just a few more minutes. The doctor is looking at your x-rays now." She backed out, and left them alone.

Don stared silently at Alan, who stared silently back. He looked gray, frightened, 20 years older than when Don had last seen him. Don finally closed the gap between them, and, holding his left arm awkwardly out to one side, gathered Alan to him in a hug. The Eppes men were not physically affectionate with each other on a regular basis – not like this. A punch in the arm, a shove with a hip, a hand ruffling hair; those things had to suffice. Alan had always hugged them as children, but as his sons grew, they began to pull away more and more. Now that they were all adults, Alan respected their preference for physical space, most of the time. In fact, as he stood in the treatment room occasionally patting Alan's back as if he was burping him, Don couldn't remember the last time they had shared a full-on hug. Was it as long ago as Mom's memorial service?

Alan finally pulled back and wrenched Don from his musings. "You should sit down, son." He was looking at Don's broken wrist.

Don followed his gaze. "It's nothing."

Alan found a hard plastic chair in the corner and dragged it near the examination table. "Still. I'll sit right here with you."

Don acquiesced and wandered back to the table. His father's hand hovered protectively over his back as he climbed on one-handed. Settling, Don carefully lowered his left arm to his lap and raised his eyes to meet his father's. He swallowed. "Have you heard anything about Charlie?"

Alan's eyes filled, but the tears did not spill. "He's having a CT scan, and x-rays of his arm and ankle. He regained consciousness during the examination."

Don's own eyes sparked a little. "Really?"

Alan didn't look happy about it. "He was very upset, confused. Apparently they had to sedate him again, for the CT scan. The doctor said they don't like to do that until they know the severity of the head injury, but he had no choice."

Don ran his good hand through his hair. "Have you seen him?"

Alan shook his head silently, then turned slightly as the door of the treatment room opened and a doctor entered, carrying an x-ray, followed closely by a nurse. "Mr. Eppes," the trauma physician boomed. "I see your father found you."

Don nodded impatiently. "Can we just do this? We need to get back to my brother."

The doctor hesitated. "The new confidentiality laws require that I have signed documentation before I can discuss your case in front of anyone else. Even your father."

Don stared at the doctor. "Fine. Give me the paper. He's staying." He looked at his father, suddenly uncertain. "Unless you don't want to?"

Alan smiled at his son fondly. "Of course I want to." He looked at the doctor and echoed Don. "And I'm staying."

All-business, the man nodded. "Right. We'll put the documentation with your release forms – just sign it then. For right now, the presence of a witness to your consent will suffice." He came closer to Don and held up the x-ray to the light with one hand. "There it is." He pointed with a finger of his other hand. "Simple fracture." He lowered the x-ray and looked at Don. "Are you right- or left-handed?"

"Right," mumbled Don.

The doctor nodded again. "Good. I should be able to set this with external traction. We'll cast it for about a month, throw in a little physical therapy and you'll be as good as new. Nurse?"

Don held up his good hand to stop her as soon as he saw the needle. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. What is that?"

The doctor had tossed the x-ray onto a chair and was snapping gloves on his hands. He glanced at Don. "Morphine. Setting a bone is usually…unpleasant."

Don shook his head. "No. I need to have my wits about me when we talk to Charlie's doctor. I won't take that."

The physician appeared to think for a moment. "Demoral? It won't be as effective, but it should take the edge off."

Don considered. Taking the edge off was exactly what he was worried about. He had been Demoraled-up enough times before to know that the first couple of hours, he was pretty much useless. He shook his head again. "No. I need to be clear. Just do it."

Alan blanched. "Donnie…" Don silenced him with a glare.

The doctor sighed. "Tell you what. You scream in here, it's going to upset everybody in the trauma bay. How about if I find out if your brother's doctor can come in and talk to the both of you now? I'll come back and set it a lttle later." He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "With Morphine."

Don knew he wasn't getting a better offer than that. "Perfect," he agreed.

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They sat quietly, well-behaved children through the recitation of injuries and solutions. Another simple fracture; this one a little higher up on his left arm than Don's. They would have matching casts for a month. A clear CT scan; no bleeding around the brain, no skull fractures. Just 15 stitches about an inch over his right eye and a nice Grade 3 concussion to go along with the gash, which was probably incurred during the bounce off the edge of the trampoline. His ankle posed the most severe physical injury, broken in at least three places, bone fragments floating around. It would require immediate surgery, plates, pins, a rod or two. They would have to be careful to clean out all the bone fragments, so that nothing got caught up in the blood stream and shot around his body cutting things up or causing clots. The description made Don's stomach twist a little, but the next thing Charlie's trauma physician said left him temporarily unable to speak.

Not so, Alan. "You can't do that." He looked desperately at Don. "They can't do that, can they?" Alan turned back to the doctor, tense. "How can you do that without talking to us, first?"

Dr. Anderson spoke gently. "Actually, I didn't. Our psychiatric resident did. And yes, we do have the right, when we've assessed that a patient is an immediate danger to himself or others, to place a 72-hour psychiatric hold on that patient. The first 24 hours are the most critical time for diagnosis, and that is why no visitors will be allowed."

"My son would not harm anyone," Alan protested hotly.

The doctor kept his tone friendly, soft. "When a patient presents with multiple injuries incurred because he jumped off a roof, it isn't necessarily other people we're concerned about."

Don found his voice. "He didn't jump. He was delusional. He thought he could fly. You need to do a tox screen."

"We are," the doctor assured him. "As I'm sure you know, it can take several days for extensive results to come back. Right now, I can tell you that his blood alcohol level was 0, and he's testing negative on all the usual suspects: PCP, LSD, Heroin, Cocaine…"

Don interrupted. "He consults for a lot of different agencies, on a high level. The FBI, NSA, CDC, Coast Guard…probably some I don't even know about. It could be related to a case he's worked, something hard to detect." He could tell that he was not making any headway with the doctor. Time for a dose of reality. "Listen, you can't do that. One thing he said on the roof was that no-one would help him." He could feel Alan looking at him, but Don concentrated on the doctor. "If he wakes up after surgery and neither my Dad or I are there, I don't know what he'll do."

The doctor looked interested. "I thought you said he didn't jump."

Don reddened in furious anger and slapped his good hand on the examination table beside him. "He didn't! He never said he wanted to! He kept talking about flying, I'm telling you!"

The doctor stood, the briefing obviously at an end. He glanced from Don to Alan. "I understand that this is very difficult for you. We have little solid information to go on, here. When he was conscious, your son was so distraught he had to be sedated, even with a head injury. Whether he jumped or flew, the fact is he came off the roof. We could be dealing with a psychotic break of some sort here." He looked back at Don, threw him a bone. "And you could be right. We might find out that it's related to some obscure drug, or a drug interaction. Until we are faced with that information, we have to act on the information we have. You're an investigator. I know you understand that."

Don fell mute, again. Alan had stood when the doctor had, and was standing with one hand over his mouth, his arm propped on the other one, which was crossed over his ribs. Now he dropped them both. The hand closest to Don gravitated toward him on automatic pilot, and began to idly stroke his son's face. "Can we at least see him before he goes to surgery?" His voice broke, a little. "I need to see my son."

The doctor glanced at his watch. "He'll be going up in just a few minutes. He's still sedated and won't respond to you, but if you want, you can ride up in the elevator with him. As I said, he'll go from recovery to our psychiatric unit, and no visitors will be allowed for the first 24 hours, but that does not mean that his surgeon will not come to the waiting area and talk to you. The psychiatric staff will want to talk to you in the morning, as well."

Don still sat silently, unwilling to accept what the doctor said, but forced to play by the hospital's rules. A fracture, even a lot of fractures, that they could deal with. Don sat, stoic, and refused to even consider the possibility that something inside of Charlie could be broken, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 4**

After Don planted his father in the surgical waiting area, he went back downstairs to deal with his wrist. Before he would face the Morphine, though, Don found Megan and Larry in the trauma waiting area. He sat heavily in a chair next to them.

Megan glanced at the arm he cradled against his middle. "Shouldn't you be doing something about that?"

Don shrugged. "In a minute. There will be drugs involved, and I want to talk to Larry while my head is clear."

The smaller man looked at Don sadly. "I'm not certain I'll shed any light, Don."

Don nodded. "Just tell me what you know. Did you spend any time with Charlie, today?"

Larry's hand crept toward his head, which he scratched absently. "I saw him this morning, before our first classes. We shared some tea, in his office. I asked if he would join me for lunch, but he said he had a meeting with Dr. Sorenson, the Division Chair, during his break between classes. He didn't know what it was about, and he was understandably a little apprehensive." He dropped his hand nervously to his lap.

"Did he seem upset about anything else? Did he talk about anything?"

Larry shook his head. "I'm afraid we didn't really speak much at all. We only had a few minutes, and first he received a call from USC asking him to speak again at the math symposium they host every year. Then Dr. Haven dropped by. He's one of my colleagues, in the Physics Department. Came to us this year from Cornell. Apparently he has had Charles checking his calculations on a paper he's writing for one of our educational journals – as he has done for me countless times…" He glanced at Megan. "He has one of mine now, in fact. I didn't realize Charlie was also working with Dr. Haven. I wish he had told me." His hand crept upward again, and this time he tugged an ear.

Don frowned. "Is it considered…unethical…to help you both?"

Larry shook his head, his hand flying off his ear and almost hitting Megan before finding his own lap, again. "No, no, it's not that. It's just that these papers can be quite intense, and complicated. It's a great deal of work. I wouldn't have given him mine if I knew he was working on Dr. Haven's already. I could have waited." Larry looked decidedly unhappy. "I hope that I did not contribute to a sense of pressure that escalated out of control."

Don wouldn't go there. He couldn't. So he ignored the statement. "So you didn't see him again?"

Larry shook his head miserably. "No. I confess, I did not even think to phone after his meeting with Dr. Sorenson. My last afternoon class is in another building, and as I approached my office, I saw the groups of excited students, pointing up to the roof. I recognized Charles, and found his behavior quite unlike him. Naturally, I went to the roof to speak with him. Someone got Campus Security involved, and they called LAPD. Oh!" A look passed Larry's face and he reached into the pocket of his jacket. He brought out the keys to Don's SUV and offered them to him. "LAPD parked it, in the faculty lot. They gave me these to return to you."

Don accepted the keys, and stared at them. "Thanks. What did he say to you before I got there?"

Larry sighed. "What he said after you got there. That he could fly, that he had corrected the Wright Brothers' math. He asked me to determine the sky's origin for him. I think I could have walked right up to him, but that's when some people from Campus Security showed up, bursting through the door onto the roof, yelling. I think they frightened him. He told us all to stay back then, and that's when I called you."

Don pocketed his keys and frowned again. "I don't remember Campus Security on the roof."

"No," Larry agreed, "you wouldn't. LAPD rather quickly removed them from the situation. Charles was talking to me when they arrived, explaining wind variables and lift-off strategies…I guess they decided that I might be able to keep him talking, and they let me stay."

Don winced, and Megan spoke gently, but firmly. "Don, you need to take care of that wrist."

He nodded and stood. "I'll go. Larry, maybe you can call this Sorenson and find out why he wanted to see Charlie."

Larry and Megan both stood, Larry nodding his head. "Of course."

Don started to thank them and walk away, but turned back after one step. "Listen, if you can stay, you guys shouldn't wait here for me. I'll go up to ortho for a cast soon, anyway. Dad's in the 4th floor surgical waiting room, alone. Could you go up there? I'll find you as soon as I'm done."

Larry clutched at Don's good arm a little. "Surgery?"

Don was startled, until he figured out that no-one had come out here and talked to them. "Ankle," he said simply. "Needs some pins and stuff." He found himself completely unable to repeat most of what the doctor had said. He was still digesting it himself. "Dad can tell you everything…"

Larry's hand was creeping up, again, but this time Megan grabbed it with one of her own, and held it tightly. She smiled reassuringly at Don. "Of course we'll go to Alan," she said. "Don't worry about him. We take care of family."

Don stared at her, wondering if she had any idea at all what she had just said. He saw the compassion in her suspiciously bright eyes, saw the concern and love for Charlie in Larry's, and decided that she probably did.

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	5. Chapter 5

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 5**

When Charlie woke up, it was because he was choking on his own vomit. There was nothing mild and gentle about it. His awakening was violent, disgusting, loud, painful and confusing. He lay flat on his back, gagging, acid bile burning his throat and filling his mouth, fighting the fishing line someone had used to tie him down. He didn't understand where the hands came from that finally saved him, rolling him deftly onto his side. Even though the movement instigated a wave of pain that rolled over him like a tsumani and contracted his stomach again, causing dry heaves to follow the bile, he was still grateful for the hands. Left to his own devices for even a few more seconds, he was certain he would have died.

He continued to heave pitifully as the hands persisted in moving him one way, and then another, competently changing the sheets beneath him. He wondered for a while if he was actually throwing up from his eyes, before he understood that he was crying.

At the same moment, almost 40 miles away, his father and his brother wandered the Craftsman-style home like lost spirits, an air of defeat and punishment cocooning each of them. They sought the comfort of each other's presence, yet floated by each other in disheartened huddles. The inability to connect was innate in them both, while the desire for that connection drove them to watch other, covertly and silently, across self-imposed distances.

Don finally succumbed to exhaustion and drug residue on the couch at 3 a.m. Alan started to cover him with a blanket from the closet under the stairs, but at the last second returned it to its storage place. Instead, he walked up to his room. In the corner stood a cedar chest Margaret had brought with her into the marriage. "Hope Chest", they used to call them back then. Margaret's mother had filled it with practical things like towels, sheets…when they had unpacked it, the entire bottom had been lined with rolls of toilet paper. Margaret had uncharacteristically burst into tears, and Alan had laughed until his sides hurt.

Now, he kept things in there he could not part with. Each boy's first pair of shoes, and favorite childhood toy. When Charlie had found Margaret's sheet music in the garage last year, Alan had moved it all into the chest. He pawed through it, and found what he wanted. He brought it out and stared at it for a while, understanding that this was silly; knowing that this was unnecessary; feeling that this was important. He smiled slightly, remembering what it had taken to get Don to give up this blanket in the first place. He had been giving Charlie Brown's blanket-dragging Linus a run for his money, until his baby brother was born. Friends and family had showered them with gifts, and someone had remembered Donnie. Ida, Alan thought now. He nodded slightly. Yes, definitely Ida. She had marched in the house with a Johnny Bench catcher's mitt and a real, regulation baseball, and offered to trade them for the blanket. That night, Alan had washed it for maybe the third time in its life, and tucked it into the chest.

Tonight, he hugged the softness to his chest as he crept back down the stairs. He stood over Don again for a few moments, then finally shook the blanket out and draped it over him. It was pathetically small for the job, of course, so Alan went back to the closet for two more. He covered his son and the blue blanket he had used the first five years of his life with one of the larger ones. Then he took the other and walked a few steps to the recliner. He sat down, put his feet up, and unfurled the blanket over himself.

Then he waited for the sun to rise, and watched Donnie sleep.

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The second time Charlie awoke, thanks to the anti-nausea medication that had been added to his IV, was more merciful. His head pounded, his throat was dry, his arm ached and his foot was caught in a wood chipper; but at least he didn't have a mouthful of vomit. He whimpered softly and wished for something to drink. Magically, the hands appeared again, and spooned ice chips into him. He sucked on them greedily and tried to search the room for his father or brother, without moving his head. He took in the fishing lines again, and understood this time that they were IV lines. He was in a hospital.

The fog in his brain began to clear a little more when he realized he could not find Alan or Don. After the ice chips, he followed the length of the arms attached to the magic hands and eventually focused on a kind female face. "Are you feeling better?" she asked, and Charlie thought he might be watching a dubbed movie. Her lips didn't move in conjunction with the words, exactly, and it made him slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes and concentrated on speaking himself. "I want my Dad," he finally rasped. "Where's my Dad?"

"I'm sorry," she answered, not unkindly. "He's not here right now."

Charlie slit his eyes open again, surprised. "Is my brother here?" She shook her head, jump-starting the dizziness again, and Charlie felt cold tendrils of fear attach to his heart. Neither one of them was here? He was still in a drug-induced haze, but even in that haze he knew the only thing that would keep them away would be if they were hurt themselves. Had they all been in an accident together? Despite the anti-nausea medication, his stomach churned and threatened to erupt, again. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. "Are they all right?" He felt the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

"Of course," she answered, efficiently wiping the tears away with something. "They're just not here, right now."

Charlie lay with his eyes closed, fighting a growing nausea and trying to figure it out. Either she was lying, and something was horribly wrong with both Alan and Don, or she was telling the truth – and something was horribly wrong with him. If she was telling the truth, he was so wrong, so disgusting, so inadequate and unnecessary, that his own father and brother could not even bring themselves to come and see him in the hospital.

More tears escaped his closed eyes, and he wondered what he had managed to screw up this time.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Due to an unreliable alert system, I am offering to send my own alerts to anyone who may not want to miss a chapter of a story they already started. If you would like a special Cat e-mail whenever I post, please send your e address to (catwomandebi AT hotmail DOT com).**

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.

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**Chapter 6**

Don sat in one chair facing the desk, fluctuating between anger and need. Alan sat in the other, hands gripping the armrests tightly. The two hadn't really spoken, beyond breakfast plans and other meaningless details. Don's Morphine high had worn completely off by morning, but he almost seemed to have a hangover, and Alan let him be.

Presently, a door at the back of the office opened, and a white-coated doctor approached the desk. He dropped some files on it and continued past it, and leaned against the front. He offered his hand first to Alan. "I'm Dr. Simpson, a member of the psychiatric staff here. You're Alan Eppes, Charlie's father?"

Alan pried a hand off the chair and gave it to the doctor briefly. "Yes." He indicated Don. "This is my other son, Don."

Dr. Simpson moved slightly to shake Don's hand, and met Don's eyes with his own steady ones when Don glared at him.

"Can you tell me how my son is?" asked Alan, not caring how pathetic he sounded.

Dr. Simpson broke off eye contact with Don and looked back at Alan. "He's having a rough morning. The anesthesia did not agree with him, and coming out of it has been rather…explosive, and slow. I spoke with him about an hour ago, and he's understandably confused that neither of you are there. He has no memory of what occurred yesterday after his first morning class, and he's afraid the three of you were in an accident together and you are both injured; unable to be with him."

Alan's head dropped a little and Don growled. "I told that other doctor that something like this would happen. It's a mistake to keep us away from Charlie."

Dr. Simpson stood and walked back behind the desk. Sitting down, he opened the top file folder of the stack he had dropped on the desk, earlier. "I see here that…" he looked up at Don. "…you are convinced your brother was drugged?"

Don nodded. "Yes. I explained that he does a lot of high-level consulting for various government agencies. He's probably made some enemies. On the roof, he was delusional. He honestly believed he could fly. I know my brother, I spend a lot of time with him. I haven't seen anything in his behavior recently that would suggest he was suicidal."

The doctor's eyes strayed to Alan, and Don's followed. His father looked decidedly uncomfortable, and was staring at his shoes. "What?", Don asked, a little more abruptly than he probably should have.

Alan looked at him a little guiltily. "It's just that you haven't been by the house on a night when Charlie has been home for over two weeks, and I know he hasn't consulted on a case since…the one with the children. Have you two had lunches together, or something?"

Don stared at him, mouth open and working as if he were one of the koi in Charlie's pond. Had it really been that long since the three of them had shared a meal together? He was saved from answering by the doctor.

"Your son lives with you, then?"

Alan turned away from Don and regarded the man behind the desk. "Actually, I live with him. Or we live in the same house. He bought it from me a little over a year ago."

"And how has that arrangement worked out?"

Alan cleared his throat and regarded his shoes again. "Good, for the most part. I've been thinking of moving out into my own condo, to give us each a little more privacy." He looked back up, almost pleading. "My wife passed away about three years ago, and it was very hard on us all. It's been…nice, not having to be alone. I just felt that maybe it's time for us to depend on each other a little less."

Dr. Simpson nodded. "Was your wife ill, or was this a sudden accident?"

Don grew impatient again, and let the anger take over. "Let's cut to the chase. My mother had cancer, and for the first couple of years, Charlie was a trooper. So I've been told. I didn't move back until she lost her remission, and for the last three months of her life he regulated himself to his garage office, unable to face her or be with her, and worked on some unsolveable math problem almost 24/7. We had issues with that." He glanced at his father, daring him to disagree. Alan remained silent. "All of us. But we dealt with it a long time ago. Charlie is much stronger now."

Dr. Simpson regarded him calmly. "You dealt with it, or you've largely ignored it for three years? Charlie is stronger now, or he's just been successful at convincing you of that?" Don went into his koi imitation again, and the doctor looked back at Alan. "You live with him. What have you noticed, the last few weeks?"

Alan sighed, and shifted in his chair. "You have to understand. Charlie has always been…unique. His first genius-level IQ test was when he was only three. He graduated high school when he was 13, and Princeton when he was 16. He has three doctorates, and has been teaching for ten years already. He's written two books. He's long been tenured at CalSci. He goes through periods when life is overwhelming to him. He doesn't eat, or sleep. When it's really bad, he doesn't control the numbers, they control him. Like when his mother was dying. They were extremely close – she even moved to New Jersey and lived there for the first two years he was at Princeton. His last year, he lived with one of his professors and his family."

The doctor made some notations in the chart. "Any intimate relationships in his life?"

Alan shrugged. "He was very attracted to someone, but he put off acting on it for a long time. When he finally did, and told the woman he wanted to pursue something between them, she took a position in Boston and moved away, instead."

"It sounds like he's no stranger to pressure, or disappointment. It also sounds like he hasn't always handled it well. How has he been lately?"

Alan considered. "The last few weeks, I've known something was wrong," he finally admitted, and Don's head whipped around to stare at him. "Ever since he consulted on a case with the FBI almost three weeks ago involving children, that did not end well. Unfortunately, I also picked that time to start talking about moving out, and I questioned his acceptance of his homeowner responsibilities." He had that pleading look, again. "I wanted to distract him, help him understand that it was time to concentrate on something else. I'm afraid now it just added pressure. I go to bed, around 11, and he's still out in the garage, or not even home yet. When I get up, at 7, he's at the kitchen table, or he's already left for school. I don't think he's sleeping. He's lost weight, so I don't think he's eating, either."

Don spoke before the doctor did. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Alan looked at him apologetically. "The case was hard on you, too. You stopped coming over as much, and when you did, you were obviously down. I didn't want you to add guilt to your plate. Charlie is an adult, he consults on these cases by his own free will; but sometimes, you forget that. You assume too much responsibility for him."

The doctor coughed a little and ruffled through some papers, and redirected the conversation back to Charlie. "Okay. So he's a genius, and a tenured professor at CalSci; he consults regularly for government agencies; his love interest left him; he's a new homeowner; and he's recently had what is clinically defined as a 'complicated grief' experience. I received a call this morning from a Dr. Fleinhardt, a colleague of Charlie's."

"Right," Don managed. "He was on the roof. He's known Charlie for years. Since Princeton."

"Yes. He wanted me to know what transpired directly before Charlie decided he could fly. Apparently he lends his considerable talent to fact-checking the mathematical theories and results that colleagues include in their publications?"

Both Eppes nodded. "He's got two right now," Don offered.

"Dr. Fleinhardt spoke with the Division Chair, a Dr. Sorenson. Charlie had a late lunch meeting with him, yesterday. Dr. Sorenson admits reminding Charlie that tenured professors are expected to publish themselves, and that he expressed disappointment in the fact that Charlie hasn't for almost two years. He strongly encouraged him to escalate his private research projects. A little more pressure."

The doctor leaned back in his chair, and Don felt some of the guilt Alan had been talking about. Yes, Charlie made his own decisions, but there had been times he had tried to tell Don he was busy; times he had made it clear he didn't want a consulting gig. Don had always played the "isn't saving lives more important than anything else you could be doing?" card, and got what he wanted, eventually. Saving lives was important, yes – but the theories Charlie developed and then took into a consulting job were what saved those lives. He needed time for his research if he was going to remain effective as a consultant, as a teacher, as a mathematician… Don was pulled from his dark thoughts by the doctor's voice.

"I have two reliable witnesses telling me that Charlie believed he could fly. Actually, more – the LAPD officers confirm this story. No-one, at any point, ever heard Charlie say anything remotely related to suicide, although I understand he did mention some of the stresses he has been under, in a disjointed way. I have two separate, tentative conclusions, here. One, the difficulty Charlie is having pulling himself out of the anesthesia fully, his inability to truly focus on a conversation or stay awake for any length of time, combined with what you tell me about his last few weeks: I believe we are dealing with a psychotic break largely instigated by sleep deprivation. That's good news, believe it or not. Some serious sleep, and things will start to make sense to him again."

Alan felt both relief and fear. "There's bad news?"

"It's not really bad news, per se. It's just that I also believe Charlie has significant issues and stressors in his life that he is not dealing with successfully. I will strongly recommend some therapy. For any of us, life does not get simpler as we travel through it; he needs to learn some coping mechanisms, and he needs to learn them now."

Don felt a little sick. "Are you going to commit him?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alan pale at the question.

Dr. Simpson smiled. "No, nothing like that. I'll recommend outpatient therapy, probably twice a week to start. I'll provide the names of several competent therapists, and he can find one with whom he connects. This is all preliminary – I still haven't had a decent conversation with Charlie himself. I'll try again late this afternoon, after he's had a few more hours to pull himself together. If that conversation goes as I suspect it will, I will lift the 72-hour hold. I don't expect to find that he is a danger to himself or others."

"Thank God," Alan breathed. Then he pushed for more. "Will you let us see him?"

The doctor looked at him kindly, and not without sympathy. "Not yet, Mr. Eppes, not before he and I have really talked. I will continue to reassure him that you are both fine and waiting to see him. It will be an honest conversation. I will explain to him where he is, and why. It will be difficult for him to hear." Dr. Simpson stood. "This meeting has been very helpful. Thank you both for your time, and honesty. I will call you later this afternoon, after I have talked to Charlie."

Both Eppes murmured their understanding and stood as well. Don rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand while they watched the doctor leave through his private entrance. Don sighed, and spoke almost casually. "Well, I should go see Merrick, about this." He held up his broken arm. "Maybe go by CalSci and pick up my car. Talk to Larry."

"I'll go with you," Alan said, tentatively. "If that's all right."

Don dropped his hand from his neck and draped it over his father's shoulders. He had known Alan would say that. He had wanted Alan to say that. He had set Alan up so that he could say that. His father should be with someone today, and Don had to admit, he wanted the comfort of his father sitting next to him today, himself. "Of course it's ok, Dad," he grinned. "How else am I going to get anywhere?"


	7. Chapter 7

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 7**

Although he still felt horrible, Charlie was yanked out of bed that afternoon and propped up in a chair, more pillows than he had ever seen in one place stuffed around and under him. He leaned his head back, looking around, and wished he wasn't so confused, and so alone.

This was the strangest hospital room he had ever seen. There was no television, no cords of any kind. He couldn't find a clock, anywhere, and there was no closet hiding his clothes. The bathroom was really only a stall with a toilet and sink. There was no shower. The door to the hallway had a window in the middle of it, and there was a video camera high in the corner, pointing at the bed. Someone was watching him.

Charlie shivered, and waited, and eventually the door with the window opened, and the doctor he thought he may have seen that morning was back. He wished he could remember the guy's name.

As if he had read his mind – which would have really freaked Charlie out, if he knew he was on a psych ward – the doctor re-introduced himself as he dragged a chair a few feet away from Charlie. "I'm Dr. Simpson, remember?" He sank into the chair, facing Charlie, and crossed one foot over the other knee. "Are you feeling any better?"

Charlie looked at him, distrustingly. "I think so. My leg hurts."

The doctor nodded. "I'm sure. You really did a number on that ankle. It's full of hardware, now. How's your arm? Your head?"

Charlie had managed to get his IV-restrained arm up to his head, earlier, far enough to feel the gauze over his eye. "Stitches?", he asked now.

Dr. Simpson nodded. "15. Part of your nausea and dizziness earlier was the concussion, no doubt. Is that better?"

"A little."

"Good. We'll get you some more anti-nausea medication if you need it. Your left arm is broken, too."

Charlie glanced at the cast. "I figured that out," he answered.

The doctor smiled. "Do you have any questions?"

Charlie really didn't want to trust this guy, but he was apparently the only option. "What kind of hospital room is this? Where am I? Where is my Dad, and my brother?"

The smile broadened. "I guess you do. Last one first. Your father and brother are fine. I spoke with them both this morning, and they are anxious to see you. Right now, you are in the psychiatric ward of UCLA Medical Center." He watched Charlie's eyes widen and fill with fear. He kept his tone gentle, and friendly. "Now, I have a question for you. What is the last thing you remember doing yesterday? Thursday."

Charlie thought for a moment, even closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them again and spoke, his voice wavered. "M-My Theories and Applications seminar, at 10." He glanced at his arm. "How did I hurt myself?"

The doctor answered with another question. "Do you remember the last time you ate, or slept?"

Charlie looked at him nervously, as if he was afraid he was being tested and would get in trouble for the wrong answer. "M-My Dad made stew, Tuesday night. I wasn't home for dinner, but I heated some up after the faculty meeting. It was late, so I wasn't hungry for breakfast on Wednesday, and I had a student who needed to see me during my lunch break…I had a banana, when I got home at 10. I w-worked late in the office. Finals are coming. I think I had some tea with Larry yesterday morning."

He wound down, the recitation at a standstill. He didn't seem to remember the second part of the question, so the doctor reminded him. "How about sleep?"

Charlie refused to meet his eyes and looked instead up at the camera. "I get insomnia, sometimes. I don't really remember. I think it's been awhile."

The doctor uncrossed his legs and leaned forward a little, elbows propped on his knees, hands dangling between them. "Charlie, I believe that sleep deprivation was a contributing factor to a psychotic episode you suffered late yesterday afternoon. Do you remember the roof of the Math & Sciences building at CalSci? Do you remember thinking you could fly?"

Charlie was assailed by a wave of nausea as he stared at the doctor in speechless horror. He choked a little on the bile rising in his throat. He looked again at the cast on his arm, the cast on his ankle, propped on several pillows. The bile rose. He looked up at the doctor, and his eyes filled with tears. "I jumped off the roof?"

"Not exactly," Dr. Simpson answered. "Your brother and your friend Larry say you flew."

Charlie tried to curl forward a little, but pain from everywhere stopped him. "They were there?", he managed to whisper. "Don was there?"

Dr. Simpson nodded affirmatively, and years of experience kicked in. He managed to straighten in his chair and shove himself backwards a little, and when Charlie threw up, he didn't even end up wearing any.

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After Charlie was cleaned up and nurses had transferred him back to bed, before the additional anti-nausea medication put him to sleep, the doctor explained to him all that he knew about how Charlie had sustained his injuries. Nothing triggered any memories for the mathematician, and Dr. Simpson decided he would speak to him again in the morning about some of the things he had learned from Don and Alan. He scribbled some orders in Charlie's chart at the nursing station and then returned to his office to call the Eppes.

After Don's visit to the office, where he was granted a week of leave before being scheduled to return to light duty, and a stop to pick up his SUV, the two had returned to the house and fallen asleep in the recliner and on the couch. The ringing of the phone woke them both, and Alan got to it first. "Yes?"

"Alan Eppes?"

"Yes, Yes. Dr. Simpson?"

"Yes. I've just spent some time with Charlie, and I feel confident having him transferred to the hospital's main population. I'll be visiting with him again at least once a day until he is released."

_Visiting._ Alan wasn't sure what question to ask first. He finally settled on, "When will that be?"

"That's up to his surgeon, Dr. Graham. Patients usually only remain in the hospital a few days after surgery these days, though."

"Is he being transferred this evening? When can we see him? Is he all right?" Once he got started on the questions, Alan couldn't stop.

The doctor chuckled a little. "Charlie did the same thing. At least now I know that's hereditary, and not from his head injury. As I warned you, the conversation was very upsetting to him. He still does not remember anything, and he was very disturbed that his brother and his friend were witnesses to the incident on the roof. I had to give him more anti-nausea medication, but I didn't sedate him. It really wasn't necessary, he's still so exhausted. Believe it or not, the psych ward is actually one of the quieter places in the hospital. I'd like him to stay here tonight so he can rest better. He'll most likely be moved right after breakfast. I think it would be best if you'd wait until, say, 9 a.m. to see him? He is anxious to see both you and your other son, but now that he knows what happened, he's worried about it, also. He could use some time to pull himself together."

Alan gripped the phone, thinking. As much as he hated it, he knew that he and Don were still in so much shock, they weren't ready either. He finally admitted it. "Charlie's not the only one who needs that," he sighed.

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	8. Chapter 8

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 8**

Alan had taken the call on the cordless phone, which he had wandered into the dining room to use. When he disconnected and turned back to the living room, he saw Don sitting up on the couch, staring at him. He tried to smile and went back to the recliner. Sitting, he relayed all the information to Don.

His son was silent for several minutes, staring at his lap. Finally he ran a hand through his hair and turned suspiciously bright eyes to Alan. "I know you're right. Charlie makes his own decisions…but he's my brother, and I know which buttons to push so the decisions are the ones I want him to make. You said I take too much responsibility for him. I don't think I take enough. He's not a trained agent, he's not equipped to deal with things like that last case. I get so focused, so…_obsessed_…I stop seeing him as my brother, and he becomes just another resource. Even when he tries to tell me he's too busy, I browbeat him into consulting."

"Well, if we're assigning blame, don't forget me," Alan answered. "I raised the boy. Remember the panic attacks during high school? No-one knows better than I do how personally Charlie takes things, how overwhelmed he can get. And my solution to his distress over the case was to convince him he was doing a terrible job with the house and was impossible to live with."

"All that work," Don mused. "He takes on too much. You can't force a 32-year-old man to eat and sleep, Dad."

Alan sat back in the chair a little. "I know. He just loves it all so much. The teaching, the research and development, the consulting…" He looked miserably at Don. "At least, I thought he did."

"Me, too," mumbled Don, and wished very hard for a beer.

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When Don and Alan finally approached Charlie's room at 9 the next morning, they met both doctors in the corridor. "Ah," said Dr. Simpson. "I thought I read you as punctual, Mr. Eppes! I managed to snag Dr. Graham to meet with us all."

Alan shook hands with both men, as did Don. "Thank-you," Alan told them both, and the four spilled into Charlie's room en masse.

Charlie had almost been asleep. The morning had started early, and the change in rooms had been exhausting. He had been gotten out of bed again for breakfast, sat up for a while, and then been wheeled to his new home, where he waited another 15 minutes for someone to help him in the bathroom and put him back to bed. Now, half out of it, he saw them all enter at once and became unaccountably frightened. He recognized Don and his father first, and saw how sad they were. He tried to push himself up in bed and got nowhere. "I'm sorry," he said, pleadingly. "I'm sorry."

The physical impact of Charlie hit Alan like walking into a wall, and he froze. The laceration on Charlie's forehead was close enough to his eye that the eye was swollen half shut, and almost a quarter of his face was bruised. The white bandage peeked out from behind his curls. One arm was tethered to a board, an IV line taped to it, and the other was propped on a pillow in a pristine white cast. Another cast encased his left leg, knee to foot, and it also was propped on pillows. Don pulled him forward, finally, and Alan was able to keep moving until he reached the head of the bed. He was afraid to touch Charlie, but he did it anyway, leaning over to gently kiss the top of his head. "Don't worry, son," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "It'll be all-right, now."

Charlie leaned into Alan and looked at Don behind him. "I'm sorry," he repeated, whispering.

Don smiled over Alan's shoulder, wishing his Dad would give up his brother for a minute. "Dad's right," he said, with what he hoped was conviction. "Don't worry about it."

Dr. Graham spoke next. "I hate to interrupt. I know this is the first time you've seen each other, but I'm due in surgery soon. I just wanted to provide a quick prognosis. Your arm should heal well, and fairly quickly. A physical therapist will come up this afternoon and teach you how to use crutches with a cast on one arm. Once you've got the hang of that, probably tomorrow afternoon, I'll release you. No work for at least two weeks – I'll see you in my office again, then – and no weight-bearing on that ankle for at least eight."

Alan had straightened and everyone was looking at Dr. Graham. Don's attention was brought back to Charlie when he began to speak, as if he were frightened. "No, that won't work. Finals are in two weeks. I have an office full of term papers to grade. I have to go back to work." He looked up at Don, then glanced quickly away, again. Alan's hand crept to Charlie's shoulder, which he rubbed absently.

Dr. Graham crossed his arms, all business. "This isn't a negotiation, Dr. Eppes. Perhaps you can do some grading at home, as you feel able." He glanced at Alan. "Under strict supervision. You have a lot of sleep to catch up on, and you need rest to heal. Frankly, I'm happy to hear finals are in two weeks. That means you can take the entire summer off."

Charlie shrugged his father's hand off, and Alan looked at him, surprised. "No, please," he begged, growing more upset. "I said I was sorry."

Dr. Simpson took up the conversation. "Charlie, I'm going to recommend some pretty intensive behavioral therapy during the summer. You'll be busy, don't worry. After talking to your family, and hearing some of the things you said on the roof, I feel that it's important. I can't force you. You're not sick, you don't need to be committed. You do need to develop some coping mechanisms, however."

Charlie's breathing rate increased, and his eyes darted from one man to the other, never staying anywhere long enough to focus. "I just need some sleep. It was sleep deprivation. You said so. You said so." There was a note of panic in his voice.

Dr. Simpson spoke to him calmly, looking only at Charlie, as if he were the only one in the room. "We don't have to decide all this right now, Charlie. I just wanted to take advantage of the break in Dr. Graham's schedule while your family was here. I understand this is a lot to process. I'll be back later, and we'll talk more."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, which Don knew had to hurt the right one, and he saw one tear slide out. His brother spoke thickly. "I'm sorry. Don't punish me. Please don't hurt me. I'm sorry."

Dr. Simpson stepped quickly to the head of the bed and unceremoniously pushed Don and Alan to the side. He leaned over the rail and spoke quietly to his patient. "Charlie, I need you to relax. Concentrate on breathing. There's nothing to be upset about."

"They're angry," Charlie sobbed, his eyes still closed. "I can see it."

"They're not, Charlie. They're concerned, they're your family. They love you. Can you match your breathing to mine? Take a deep breath with me."

Don and Alan stood back, and watched Dr. Simpson perform a miracle. Without additional drugs, without a hammer, without anything but his soft, almost melodic voice, the doctor soon had Charlie's breathing slow and regular again, his eyes open and fixed on the doctor. Dr. Simpson smiled. "Good. You're doing well, Charlie. How do you feel?"

"Tired," he answered, his voice small. "Bad."

The doctor pressed for details. " 'Bad' how? Are you in pain?"

Don saw another tear roll down Charlie's face, and felt tears pressing the backs of his own eyes. "I-I'm making everybody feel bad," Charlie tried to explain. "I didn't mean to. I just need some sleep."

The doctor nodded. "Yes, you do. Several days' worth. Sleep will help. Is it all right if your father and brother stay here while you sleep? They've been waiting a long time to see you."

Charlie hung his head a little. "They don't have to," he almost whispered. "They're busy."

Don had heard enough. He pushed past his father up to the rail and touched Charlie for the first time, squeezing his shoulder. "This is the only place I need to be right now," he said forcefully. "Dad, too. We want to be here. Please let us stay."

Charlie lifted his head to look at Don, but his eyes fell on the cast on his arm first. When his eyes got to Don, they were wide, full of fear. "You're hurt. Oh God, you're hurt."

Don smiled. "It's nothing. Look, I'm standing here, I'm talking. I just wanted to match casts with you for a while. Same arm, and everything." He winked at Charlie. "You're on your own with the whole ankle thing, though. Maybe you can talk Dad into joining you on that one."

Charlie's serious demeanor cracked for an instant, and he almost smiled. He leaned heavily into the pillow. "I'm really tired," he said, and his eyes began to drift shut.

Don squeezed his shoulder again. "That's okay, Buddy, you sleep. Dad and I will wait right here for you."

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	9. Chapter 9

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 9**

Charlie slept the sleep of the exhausted and the drugged. His primary care physician, Dr. Stedman, showed up during his lunch break from the office. He read Charlie's chart, examined him while he slept, and conferred with Drs. Simpson and Graham. Charlie's exhaustion and malnutrition led them to decide to leave him on an IV for another 24 hours, and postpone the physical therapy visit until the next morning.

It was almost 2 in the afternoon before Charlie woke up again, and then it was because a nurse made him. Don helped her transfer Charlie to a wheelchair, and she spent at least 10 minutes with him in the bathroom. Both Charlie and the nurse had insisted they did not need Don's further assistance, but he watched the door and listened for thumps, worried. Alan fussed with Charlie's bed and did the same thing.

Finally, the two emerged again. Charlie was looking a little more awake and alert, and a lot more like he was reconnecting with his body. Lines of pain were evident in his face. Still, the nurse all but demanded that he sit up for another half hour, and accepted Don's help again to get Charlie into the larger chair next to the bed. Once she had him settled, she patted him lightly on the IV arm. "I'm going to bring you some gelatin and a nutritional shake," she informed him, her eyes glinting in a hardness that scared Don, a little, "and you are going to consume them." She eyed Don and Alan. "Have you gentlemen eaten?"

"Yes, thank-you," Alan answered, sounding a little apprehensive himself. This was one frightening nurse. "My son ran down to the cafeteria and brought up some sandwiches." She nodded and left them for awhile, and Alan scooted a hard, plastic chair into a better position to face Charlie.

He sat down and regarded his son. "I think you'd better try hard to eat whatever she brings you," he said. "That woman scares me."

Don, moving his own chair into position, smiled a little and checked Charlie. His brother looked a little shell-shocked. "Hmmmfff," Charlie grunted, looking at Alan, and then Don. "You should try being locked in the bathroom with her. You people have to help me."

Don laughed out loud. The comment was…_so Charlie_. God, he had missed that. None of the Eppes men were sufficiently trained for the depth of psychological floodwaters they had suddenly found themselves immersed in, the last couple of days.

The nurse came crashing back through the door, and Don soon found himself holding a dish of green gelatin while Charlie gripped a small, plastic bottle with a straw sticking out of it and pointing at him. The woman stood before them and checked her watch. "I'll be back," she said, looking and sounding so much like Arnold Schwarzzaneger that Don actually felt chills. "20 minutes." She turned and flounced away, and Don looked at Charlie.

He already had the straw in his mouth.

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Don was holding the empty bottle, now, and Charlie was chasing the gelatin cubes with a spoon. The small bowl was on his lap, and his one-handed attempts were actually a little funny, until the dish flipped upside down and dumped the gelatin in his lap. He stared at it, horrified. "You people have to help me," he said again, and Don suppressed a smile.

Alan leaned over and carefully scraped the gelatin back into the bowl. He stood and started for the trash can. "You're not eating this now," he said. "I'm your father, and I say the drink and half the gelatin is enough; a good beginning. We'll get you something else later."

"Don't throw it there," Charlie pleaded. "She'll see it. Can't you…wash it down the sink, or something?"

Alan started to tell Charlie he was being silly, but then remembered the nurse. He would bet that she had received her training via the military. He blinked, and headed for the bathroom.

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Charlie was asleep again less than a minute after he was transferred back to bed. The nurse was still adjusting pillows. Despite Charlie's current state, despite her rather brusque manner so far, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a needle, uncapped it and injected some pain medication into his IV port. "It's time," she explained to Alan and Don. "This will keep him asleep, but he needs that." Both men were relieved to learn that she was not without mercy.

Don actually fell asleep himself that afternoon, once he had moved into the larger, more comfortable chair that Charlie had vacated. Alan watched them both for awhile before he shifted in his chair and retrieved the book Don had picked up earlier that day in the hospital gift shop.

When Don woke up almost two hours after he had fallen asleep, Charlie was looking at him, his head turned toward him on the pillow. "You okay?" he asked softly, and Don smiled.

"Yeah." He stretched a little in the chair. "Just thought you had a good idea, for once. How about you?"

Charlie dropped his eyes, and seemed to inhale a deep breath. "I want you both to know I'm sorry. Dad is always telling me to sleep, and eat. I didn't know something like this could happen, honestly."

Alan had risen from his chair and approached the head of the bed when he saw that both sons were awake. He stood between them and dropped a hand on the sheet over Charlie's leg. "I hope you're not waiting for us to tell you that we understand. That it's all-right."

Charlie raised his eyes to him. "I'm not. I know it's not all-right, and I promise you, this lesson is learned. I'll take better care of myself." He looked at Don, again, and his eyes glistened with suppressed emotion. "I'm so sorry that you had to see that. It must have been…"

He couldn't seem to come up with the word he wanted, so Don provided a few. "Horrifying. Overwhelming. Terrifying. Sickening. Shit, Charlie, you scared the hell out of me." He saw his brother flapping his arms again in preparation for take-off, and shuddered.

Charlie swallowed, and let his eyes drop to Don's casted arm. "How did that happen?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Don admitted. "The report says you almost took me with you, and an LAPD officer grabbed me, brought me down hard on the edge of the roof." He regretted his blunt honesty immediately.

His father hadn't heard that part of the story yet, and the blood drained out of his face. Charlie made a sound of pained distress and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears poured out of them anyway. "G-G-God," he cried. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm s-s-s-sorry…"

Don fought his way out of the chair and touched first his father, and then carefully ran his uncasted hand through Charlie's hair. "No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you guys like that. Look, I'm here, it's all right. Come on, guys."

Charlie turned his head away from him and fought for control. Don felt his father's arm snake around his waist. He chased Charlie's head and brushed a tear from his brother's face. Charlie had seemed so…normal…today, the times he had been awake. Don's words had managed to end that, and he was sorry. "Buddy. I'm all right."

"N-No thanks to m-me," Charlie mumbled to the wall, not looking at either of them. "You deserve better. I almost k-k-killed you." His shoulders shook, and giant sobs began to overtake him.

Alan let go of Don and crossed to the other side of the bed. He let the rail down and perched on the edge. Carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking him, he drew Charlie up into a sitting position and his arms encircled his son. Charlie's head lolled against his chest, and Alan gently rocked him, saying nothing. His sad eyes met Don's over Charlie's head, and a hand rubbed tiny circles on Charlie's back. Don stared helplessly back at his father, and the two of them listened to Charlie's heart break.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 10**

The next morning found Charlie disconnected from his IV, and brought so many visits from so many different doctors, therapists and nurses that there wasn't much time for anything else. Especially since Charlie promptly fell asleep anytime he was left alone for five minutes.

The afternoon saw an odd parade make its way down the hospital corridor, destination sunroom. Don and Larry flanked Charlie, who crutched an awkward, leaning, slow hop. Alan followed behind, the three trying to form a protective triangle around Charlie. He tried to clench his left armpit and use those muscles to swing forward the left crutch, as he has been shown that morning. The fingers of his casted left arm hooked benignly around the handgrip of the crutch, providing only alignment. It was not a quick or easy process, and he didn't see how it ever would be.

He bumped lightly into Don on one hop, and the agent looked ahead and tried to gauge how much farther they had to go. "How ya doin' there, Chuck? Need to stop for a while?"

"Shut up," Charlie hissed, trying to use his armpit to point everything farther toward the left side of the hallway. "This is hard."

Don looked at him and smiled at the determination on his face. Yeah, they were hopping all the way on this, he could tell. Charlie had that look. He wanted to see more of it, suddenly. "I'm just saying. One of us could get the chair."

Charlie was breathing hard. "I. Said." Clench, aim, swing, plant. "Shut." Hop. Damn. Forgot the right side. "Up."

Don's smile broadened. He liked Charlie. He was glad to see Charlie. He glanced back and saw his father smiling, too.

Trust Larry to ruin everything. "Charles, I want to apologize for my insensitivity in adding to your workload. I should not assume you are always free to help me."

They had finally reached the sunroom, and Charlie had his eyes on a group of chairs near the window. He grunted in response to Larry, but that was all. It was fifteen more hops before the group reached the bank of chairs, and as Don helped Charlie lower to one, he felt his brother tremble. He leaned close to his ear for a moment. "You okay?", he asked, quietly. Charlie flashed him a quick glance full of naked gratitude that almost knocked Don over backwards, then nodded.

Don was still wondering about that look when Larry took up the dialogue again. Couldn't he give the guy five minutes in the sun, first? "I was horrified when Dr. Sorenson told me what your meeting was about."

Charlie grunted again, but he had caught his breath a little by now, and followed with a few words. "Yeah. Dr. Simpson said you said he said what he said." He grinned a little loopily when he heard how inane that sounded, then shrugged. "You know what I mean."

Don was a little surprised when Alan took it further. "You still don't remember the meeting, or how it made you feel?"

Charlie shook his head, then volunteered something that surprised Don even more. "I can tell you how it makes me feel now, though."

Don tried to relax. Apparently, he was the only one uncomfortable with this conversation.

"How?", questioned Alan.

Charlie looked grimly out the window. "Sad. A little angry. I'm one of the frontrunners in the field of mathematics. I average five offers a year from other universities, ten from think tanks…I'll admit, for a few months there I wasn't pursuing anything on my own. But I've been working on Cognitive Emergence for over a year, and I already have too much data for a journal article. I've been thinking for some time now that this research will result in my next book. That kind of serious study, data compilation, writing — it can't be rushed. And I should have earned a little trust, at least, from CalSci by now."

"I wonder if you told Sorenson all that," Don heard himself say. "I hope so. It's all true."

"Absolutely," agreed Larry. "Again, I apologize for making it more difficult for you to have time for your own research."

Charlie sighed a little, still looking out the window. "I enjoy helping you, Larry. I wouldn't want you to go to someone else. I'm capable of telling you when it's too much." He shifted a little in the chair and added something, rapidly. "I don't think I need any kind of therapy. Besides physical, I mean. All this happened because I wasn't taking care of myself, and I know how dangerous that is, now."

Don exchanged a glance with Alan over Charlie's head. "Buddy…you said some stuff, on the roof. And last night. Don't you think your reaction was a little…extreme?"

Charlie remembered crying himself to sleep in his father's arms, and he reddened. He was embarrassed, but he tried to make it look like righteous anger. "No, I don't. I'm not an FBI agent, Don, when I learn I almost killed someone — my own brother, no less — I hope that always upsets me."

Don knew Charlie was trying to distract him by pushing a button, but he bristled anyway. "FBI agents don't like killing people either, Charlie. That was unnecessary."

He felt his brother slump beside him. "I'm sorry," Charlie said quietly. "You're right. I can't even fight fair."

Don looked at him and saw that the sadness was back, a black cloud hanging over Charlie and pressing down on him so hard he almost couldn't breathe. He wasn't even looking out the window, anymore, but at the floor. Charlie was all over the place since they'd been allowed to spend time with him, and it was a little hard to keep up. Every time he let himself think the real Charlie was back, this other, dejected, miserable guy showed up and pushed his way in. Don's heart hurt at the unhappiness on Charlie's face, and he draped an arm around the thin shoulders. "It'll be all right, Charlie," he assured him, hoping it was true. "You know we'll do whatever we can."

Charlie stiffened a little. "I'm just tired. Don't treat me like this, please. Like a…shattered glass, or something. Please. I'm not crazy. I'm just tired."

God, he sounded so young, so vulnerable, so lost. Don gave him a final squeeze and brought his arm away. He bumped shoulders with Charlie lightly. "It's okay to rest, Charlie. Sometimes, we all need to rest."


	11. Chapter 11

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 11**

Don helped Alan get Charlie home the next morning, when he was released, and hung around the house most of the day, since he was on medical leave himself. There was an undeniable, deep comfort in lying around in the recliner, watching Charlie propped on the couch, while their father "Jewish-mothered" them both nearly into oblivion. It was almost like when they were kids, and they both had the flu at the same time. Their mother had a case in court that week, so Alan had stayed home to take care of them. Every dish of gelatin and mug of soup that Alan pulled out of thin air, every cool glass of water, every handful of pills, even – it all felt like home, and made Don believe that everything would be all right as long as they were together.

Charlie slept most of the day, but Don worked on the book he had purchased in the hospital gift shop for a while, then made a few quiet phone calls before he, too, was down for the count. He awoke around 4 because the doorbell was ringing – although Charlie slept blissfully on. Before Don could fight his way out from under the blanket Alan had covered him with while he slept, his father was out of the kitchen and halfway to the front door. He returned with Larry and one of Charlie's T.A.s. They had gone through Charlie's office and gathered up anything that looked like it might be remotely important, and they each placed a large box on the dining room table. Larry introduced the student as Matthew, and he smiled shyly and said that he would go to the car for "the rest of it".

Don was up by now, and he wandered into the dining room and looked at the large boxes. "There's more?", he asked Larry.

The physicist placed his hand on one box. "Oh, yes. This one alone are the term papers submitted last week, according to Matthew." He pawed through a few of the papers on the top. "Of course, these are the hard copies. Many students submit their work in some form of computerized format as well, now, which is why we brought nearly ten pounds of assorted disks with us."

Matthew, effectively blind behind two stacked boxes, bumped into Don, who turned and guided him to the table. The student dropped the boxes. "I'm so sorry," he started, but Don waved him off.

"No problem," he said. "There really is an enormous amount of work, here."

Larry jingled his keys. "Yes. Finals approach, as you know. Besides term papers, there are regular assignments and tests. I included Charles' laptop, of course, and his back-up disks…he also asked me to bring both Dr. Haven's paper and my own. I believe there's also some Cognitive Emergence work in here. At least his final exams are already written and submitted to the Division secretary. I asked."

Alan crossed his arms and looked at Larry. "They can't expect him to do all this work. He just…had surgery."

Larry tried to reassure him. "His students understand that this semester's grades will be a little later than usual. We had to approve graduation applications a month ago, so there's really no rush even to complete the seniors' work. Please remind Charles that he doesn't have to stick to the usual schedule on this. A few hours a day, at most. When I am able, I will be happy to come and assist, if I can."

Alan didn't look much happier, but he invited them for dinner anyway. Larry smiled and thanked him, but claimed he had to get Matthew back to campus for a student council meeting. He glanced toward the couch, where Charlie was still dead to the world. "I had rather hoped to say hello to Charles, but I can see that will have to wait."

Alan shuffled a little, uncomfortably. "Yes, well. He has been sleeping a lot, today. I may have told him a pain pill was an antibiotic."

Don looked at his father in shock. "You _lied_ to him?" Another thought shocked him more. "Me, too? Is that why I feel asleep?"

Alan frowned. "No, of course not. I told you I was giving you some aspirin, and that's what it was. And I did give Charlie his antibiotic. I think he must have at least suspected the other one was for pain. The fact that he let me get away with it tells me he needed it."

It was true that there was so much activity at the hospital yesterday that Charlie didn't get to sleep as much as he wanted. It was also true that he had been lying on the couch in basically the same position for almost four hours, and it was going to hurt like a bitch when he did wake up. "Yeah, well, just don't get used to it," Don mumbled, dreading the awakening.

It came fifteen minutes after Larry and Matthew left. Don was back at his book, Alan was in the kitchen working on dinner, and Charlie was apparently in hell. He shifted on the couch and groaned. He shifted and moaned. He shifted again, and sighed. Don finally looked up from the book to see liquid brown eyes pathetically staring at him. "I can't seem to move," Charlie informed him. "Did Dad staple me to the couch?"

Don grinned and got out of the chair. He hooked his good arm around Charlie's good arm and pulled him up into a sitting position. "St-Stop now," Charlie breathed, and Don let go and watched him close his eyes and convulse his hand on the pillow. Presently, he opened his eyes again and attempted a smile. "Okay. Crutches. Please."

Don leaned over and picked them up off the floor. "Where we going?" He hooked arms with Charlie again and pulled him to a more-or-less standing position, helping his brother arrange the crutches.

Charlie looked around, blinking. "I don't know. I just don't want to lay there anymore." He saw the boxes on the dining room table. "What's that?"

"Stuff from your office. Larry and….Matthew, they brought it. Papers and tests and disks and computers. And one kitten. I saw a kitten in there."

Charlie peered at him from under his hair. "Very funny. Let's go there. I'll sit at the table for a while."

"Okay," Don agreed, stepping to the side. He thought it was too soon for Charlie to be thinking about work, but it was almost time for dinner anyway. Might as well go to the table. Charlie started out a little wobbly, and Don almost called his father, but he grabbed the waistband on Charlie's sweats and hung on, and they made it to the dining room without incident. After he had helped Charlie lower into a chair, Don took one on the opposite side of the table. Charlie started to raise a hand toward his forehead. "Leave it alone," Don warned.

Charlie glared at him, but dropped his hand. "Itches," he sulked, and dragged one of the boxes a little closer. He brought out a fistful of papers and laid them on the table in front of him. The he leaned over and looked at the rest of the contents of the box. He turned his attention back to the papers on the table. He spent about a minute looking at the first one, and then awkwardly thumbed through them all with his good hand while he held the stack in place with his casted arm. Finally, he looked up at Don. His eyes looked sad, and a little frightened. "I can't do this."

Don stood and started for the other side of the table. "Of course you can't," he agreed. "No-one expects you to." He started moving boxes from the table to the floor, shoving them in the corner behind the hutch. "Not today, certainly. Larry said to remind you there is no rush on any of this." He scooped the papers Charlie had taken back into the box they came from, and moved it with the others. He stood behind Charlie and let his hand rest on one of his brother's shoulders. "Dad drugged you, you know. That's probably why it's hard to concentrate."

He heard a small chuckle escape Charlie. "I know. I think it was the big 'Vicodin' on the pill that gave it away."

The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Alan poked his head out. "Oh. Good. You're both awake and at the table. Don, can you help me bring some things out?"

Fifteen minutes later, Alan sat and watched Charlie pretend to eat. He was a little disappointed. He had made an old recipe of Margaret's, what each of the boys always asked for when he needed some comfort food. It was a chicken-noodle casserole. Simple, but usually popular. Alan looked at Don. At least he seemed to be enjoying it. He looked back at Charlie. "Is there a problem, son?"

Charlie jerked his head up, guilt and despair hitting Alan like a hammer. He loaded up his fork. "I'm eating. I'll eat, Dad. Don't be angry, I'm sorry… It's good. I'm sure it's good."

Don was a little surprised at the frantic outburst, and from his angle, he could see the fear in Charlie's eyes again. He tried to intervene. "It's a rich dish, Dad. Maybe it's too much?"

Alan groaned and reached across the table to stop Charlie's hand, halfway to his mouth. "Of course. I'm sorry, Charlie, I didn't think. I could heat up some of the soup you had for lunch…or, or…I got some of those drinks, like you had in the hospital."

The fork and Charlie's eyes both dropped. "One of those would be fine, thank-you. Maybe some crackers?"

Alan stood and took Charlie's plate. "Not a problem." Charlie's demeanor concerned him a little. "Don't fret son, this was my mistake. I should have realized your stomach wasn't quite ready for something so heavy." Charlie just shrugged silently, still looking at the table. Alan exchanged a look with Don on his way back to the kitchen.

While he was gone, Don watched Charlie. He speared a chunk of chicken. "You should have given that to me. I would have eaten it."

Charlie lifted his head and his eyes sparked when he looked at Don. He spoke sharply. "Could you just not criticize every last thing I do? Is that too much to ask? Or am I so horrible the opportunities are just too endless?"

Shocked, Don barely managed to swallow. He quietly released his fork onto his plate and stared at Charlie. "I-I'm not. I was kidding. And no, you're not horrible. Have I done something to make you feel that way?"

Charlie looked away, good hand rubbing at his temple. "I have a headache," he said, not really responding to the question. "I'm tired. Why am I tired? I just got up."

Don wasn't sure if he was still in trouble or not. He decided to risk another opinion. "You just got out of the hospital this morning, Charlie. You'll feel better tomorrow." He watched Charlie's eyes close, watched as Charlie massaged his temple, and hoped that he was right.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 12 **

Between the two of them, Don and Alan managed to get Charlie up the stairs after his dinner of half a nutritional drink and four crackers. They both lurked outside the bathroom, listening to hops and waiting for thumps, and then tag-teamed Charlie to bed. It was still early, and Don tried to stay and watch a movie with his Dad when they went back downstairs; Alan woke him when it was over, and it wasn't hard to convince him to stay the night.

He awoke in the morning, in his childhood bed, hearing sounds from that era. "Ow! Don't pull so hard! That hurts!"

"If you didn't insist on keeping your hair this long, it wouldn't be so difficult to get a comb through it, now, would it?"

"You're doing it wrong! Did you use conditioner?"

"Charles Edward, I emptied the bottle. Now keep your voice down. Your brother is still sleeping."

"Just let me do it. Give me the comb."

"If I can't do it with two hands and traction, what do you think you can do with one?"

Don rolled over and laughed into his pillow. He saw the clock as he turned over. 8 o'clock, and the two of them had been up early enough to find a way to wash Charlie's hair already? Don pushed himself out of bed and padded down the hall toward the bathroom.

"Dad, please. I'm not going anywhere, I just wanted it clean. Leave it the way it is."

"I swear, Charlie, why your mother liked your hair this way has always been completely beyond me. Did you whine like this when she used to help you?"

"I'm not whining," Charlie answered in a voice that obviously was. "My ankle hurts. I need to put my foot up."

Don was close enough now to see Charlie leaning precariously on his crutches while Alan stood behind him and tried to yank a comb through his wet hair. As soon as Charlie said that his ankle hurt, the comb froze. Alan looked at Charlie's reflection in the mirror, and the comb was tossed to the counter. "All-right." He saw Don take a position in the doorway. "Do you want to go downstairs?"

Charlie shook his head, and drops of water flew off and hit Don in the face. "Hey. I prefer taking my own shower."

Charlie tried to take a step with his crutches, and the left one skidded, flew out and crashed to the floor. Charlie started a slow spin with the other one, trying to maintain his balance. Alan and Don both reached out to grab him, but they were coming from two different directions and he wasn't prepared for that, either. He jerked away from Don, bounced off his father, and the second crutch skidded. Before anybody could stop the inevitable, Charlie had dropped his remaining lifeline, grabbed awkwardly for a counter he couldn't quite reach, touched his casted foot to the floor and jerked it back up again. It was an overbalancing move, and it tipped him over backwards into the bathtub.

Don heard the solid "thunk" of Charlie's head on the wall and grabbed onto the only thing he could still contact – Charlie's casted arm. He braced himself against his father and tried to slow his brother's descent. Eventually, Charlie reached the bottom of the tub, and Don felt his movement stop. He stood breathing heavily from exertion and fear, and locked eyes with Charlie.

"Son of a bitch," Charlie breathed. "Let go of my damn arm!"

He hadn't really realized until then that he had a hold of the broken one. As soon as he did, Don released it, quickly, and Charlie's arm flew back and conked him in the face. Charlie quickly covered his face with his good hand, and Don saw his shoulders shaking. "Shit, Buddy, I'm sorry." He leaned over the tub a little. "Are you all right? What hurts?"

Charlie lowered his hand, and Don saw that he was laughing. He sat in the tub, casted foot propped on the edge, holding his casted arm, a bruise already forming on his cheek, laughing so hard tears were running out his eyes. "Y-Y-You know what they say," he finally squeaked out, wiping his eyes and trying to breathe between the nearly hysterical waves of laughter. "80…oh, God…80 percent of accidents occur in the h-h-home!"

"Charlie, calm down," Don heard his father say, and just when he was about to relax, he figured out that this really could be hysterical laughter.

He sat on the edge of the tub. "Seriously, Chuck. Do an inventory. How's your head? I heard it hit the wall."

Charlie stopped laughing long enough to scream, "How's the WALL?" and erupted again in a fit of giggles.

Don looked at Alan. "Has he had any pain meds this morning?"

Alan looked worried. "Yes. I insisted that he drink one of those things and take two before I would wash his hair. I thought we'd be done before they really kicked in."

Don raised an eyebrow. "Two?"

His father became a little defensive. "The label says he can have two. And he had a restless night."

He had? Don had slept right through it.

"NIGHT!" yelled Charlie, capturing Don's attention again. He was still giggling, although now he had added hiccups to the mix. "There was a BLIGHT in my NIGHT, and it caused my father FRIGHT. Donnie."

A smile played around Don's mouth and he turned his head and spoke lowly to his father. "He's stoned. Let's get him out of there and pour him back into bed."

Alan didn't look convinced. "He could be hurt."

Don looked at the wall Charlie's head had hit. "I don't see any blood. The casts are intact. We can take him to the hospital and let them x-ray and CT scan everything again, but I really think he's okay. It wasn't that big a fall, and I had him most of the time." He looked back at Charlie, who was still hiccupping and giggling, although both had slowed down a little. His eyes were at half mast.

"Dad, Dad, Bo-Bad," he singsonged, groggily. "Donworee. Chuckie's bood." He suddenly sneezed violently. "I gean, mood."

"I knew I shouldn't have washed his hair," Alan mumbled, and somehow, Charlie's largely boneless body was hauled out of the tub. They didn't bother with crutches, but had him hop down the hall between them.

About halfway to his room, Charlie stopped and tried to take his arm from around Don's shoulder. "Gunna take a liddle nappie," he slurred, and Don held onto the wrist, glad he had thought to hang on in the first place. At least it was Charlie's good arm, this time.

"Not quite yet, Charlie," he said, and managed to get him moving again. Three minutes later he was safely in bed, lying in his favorite position on his side, smiling.

Alan stood over him, tucked him in securely and patted his wet head. "Good-night, son."

Charlie's eyes popped open. "Hey. Hey. DAD."

Alan smiled. "Yes, Charlie?"

Charlie grinned in sheer delight. "Affer my nap, will you wash my hairs?"

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They agreed that one of them would check on Charlie every half-hour. It turned out to be more like every 15 minutes. It was 2 before he showed signs of waking, and 2:15 before the jury came back in. He regarded Don silently through heavily-lidded eyes when he came through the bedroom door.

Don smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. He had brought a bottle of water with him, and he offered it to Charlie, then set it on the edge of the desk near the bed and started to help Charlie push himself up in bed. The younger man pulled away from him. "I can do it," he protested softly. It was difficult to watch him struggle, with one hand, but Don restrained himself and let him do it. He retrieved the water again, glad that Alan had thought to twist the top off for them, and had it waiting when Charlie finally leaned against the wall. His brother finally accepted it and drank almost half of it in one swallow.

"Hey, hey…" Don reached for the bottle. "Take it easy. I'll help you downstairs and you can have some lunch."

Charlie gave up the bottle but shook his head, then let it sink against the wall. "No, thanks. I think I'll just stay up here, today."

Don put the bottle on the desk again and frowned. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself in the bathtub this morning?"

Charlie looked at him, confused. "Bathtub? I can't take a bath."

Don grinned. "Remember asking Dad to wash your hair?"

Charlie automatically reached for it and smoothed curls that had dried in wild disarray. "Yes…it's a little fuzzy after he tried to get a comb through it."

"I'll bet. Short story – you fell. Does something hurt worse than it's supposed to?"

Charlie dropped his hand to his lap. "No."

Don searched for something else he could ask. "Good…I could help you to the bathroom?"

Charlie lifted his head again and looked away. "You don't have to do anything. You can go back to what you were doing."

Don reached out as if to touch Charlie, but dropped his hand at the last second. "Are you….angry with me, or something?"

Charlie looked back at him. "Of course not. Why?"

Don shrugged. "You don't seem real friendly right now, Charlie. And last night, what you said to me at dinner…it reminded me of the roof."

Charlie paled. "I don't remember."

"Which? Last night, or the roof?"

"Either one. I said something last night?"

This time Don did lightly touch Charlie's hand below the cast. "You said I criticize you all the time. On the roof, you said that no-one would help you, and that you didn't have time to do everything we all wanted. You talked about losing time. With Mom, and Amita." Don inhaled deeply. When he had come up here with water, he hadn't intended to talk to Charlie about the roof. He wasn't even sure Charlie was sober enough to remember this. He didn't know exactly how this conversation happened. He wasn't ready to stop it, either. "Charlie, you talked about being unable to solve things on time. Being too late for Mom, too late on the case… I never meant to make you feel like that. I know we don't always talk about the stuff we probably should. We never really talked about Mom. And after the case went bad…that night after work, the rest of the team and I got drunk. It was bad for us, too…it was bad for me. I lost myself in it, and I didn't even wonder how you were handling it. I'm sorry."

Charlie looked as if he might be sick. "I said all that?" He spoke in a small, unbelieving voice. "But…it was sleep deprivation. The doctor said…"

"The doctor said that's why you went off the roof, Charlie. Sleep deprivation led to a grandiose delusion, you thought you could fly. I believe that, I was there. What I don't want to believe is that I haven't been the brother I should have been. Not supporting you, guilting you to work on cases after you've told me you're busy, never coming out and telling you that I understand what happened, with Mom…"

Charlie's eyes widened. "You do?"

"I think so," Don answered. "I was never as angry about it as I tried to pretend I was. I was angry, all right – at a lot of things. I was angry that I hadn't moved home sooner. I was angry at Kim, for not coming with me. I was angry Mom was dying. I was angry that you and Dad had already been forced to watch that for almost two years.You were an easy target. I'm sorry."

Charlie had wrapped his arms around his stomach, and he was getting that shell-shocked look again. "I..I..." He turned away from Don again, and looked toward the window. "Can I be alone for a while?"

Don tensed. "You believe that I'm sorry, don't you? About everything?"

Charlie leaned his head against the wall again and closed his eyes. "I believe that."

Don waited for Charlie to say it was all right. That he was all right. That everything would be all right. It was almost five minutes before he decided that it was not going to happen, and walked sadly from the room.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 13**

Don didn't tell Alan about their conversation, but he went home to his apartment before dinner, and let Charlie have some space. He didn't come back until the next afternoon. He found Charlie sitting at the dining room table, his lap top up and running before him. Charlie was concentrating and hadn't heard Don pass through the swinging door from the kitchen, and Don stood uncertainly for a moment, wondering if he would be welcome.

He was almost knocked over when his father pushed through the door after him. "Oh! I'm sorry, Donnie. Charlie, did you speak to your brother?"

Charlie looked up and started a little. "What?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "I said your brother is here. Do you need anything? I thought I would go to the store while Don's here." He glanced at Don. "If that's all right with you. Were you staying for a while?"

"Sure," Don answered, watching Charlie for a reaction.

Charlie was poking one-handed at the keyboard. "I don't need a babysitter. And get some yogurt. Please."

"I'd worry if you were home alone too long. And yogurt is on the list. Anything else?"

"No, I'm good."

Alan smiled. "You'll be better if you put that lap top away and talk to Don. You've already worked an hour since lunch." His smiled seemed to widen. "Besides. I think you have something to tell him."

If Dad was smiling, it couldn't be too bad. Don hoped. "Beer," he said.

Alan frowned. "It's too early, Don. It's only 3 o'clock."

Don reached for his wallet and grinned. "Not right now, Dad. I wondered if you could get some for me, as long as you're going to the store. Let me give you some cash."

Alan waved him off. "Don't worry about that. I have Charlie's debit card. This is his week to pay for the groceries."

"Hey!" Charlie slammed shut his lap top. "I heard that."

Alan winked at Don. "Amazing how convenient that boy's hearing is. I'll see you both in about an hour. Call me if you think of something else — I'll take my cell."

Don watched his father retreat into the kitchen again and then took a seat opposite Charlie at the dining room table. "Working, already?"

Charlie smiled. Smiling was a good sign. "I just graded some tests this morning, and this afternoon I entered the grades into the records. Nothing major. Trust me, I have not even made a dent. I'm glad you're here. I was going to call you, but Dad thought you'd come by, and I wanted to tell you in person if I could."

Don waited, apprehensive despite the smile.

"Dr. Stedman called this morning," Charlie informed him. "The hospital lab called him, since he's my primary care physician."

The apprehension grew into worry. "You're okay, aren't you?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes. Some more tox screen results came back, though. Apparently I was the victim of a basement chemist somewhere."

Don's eyes gleamed, and he tried not to smile. Who smiled when he learned his brother had been drugged? "I knew it," he said forcefully. "What was it?"

"Salvinorin A."

"Sal what?"

"Salvinorin A. Found in the leaves of the S. divinorum plant, which is endemic to the Mexican state of Oaxaca. Concentrated quantities have a psychoactive effect. Combined with the effects of sleep deprivation, Dr. Stedman says it's amazing I didn't literally fly."

Don tried to corral his thoughts. "Where did you ingest it? Damn, I wish I could get our resources on this. Is there any way to tell if you were targeted because of your government ties?"

"Slow down," Charlie admonished him. "LA's finest already cracked the case."

Don was nonplussed. "What? When? How?"

Charlie chuckled a little. "It's kind of cool to know something before you do."

Don grunted in exasperation. "Chuck, this is not the time to mess with me."

"Okay, okay. The lab informed LAPD, and some detectives came around 9:30. They asked me what I ate and drank that day, and all I can remember is half a cup of my own tea in my office with Larry before my first morning class, and another cup of tea in Dr. Sorenson's office. So they went to CalSci to get samples. Turns out I wasn't even the target. When they got to Sorenson's office, he said that he and his wife are going through a messy divorce. Fighting over custody of the kids, community property, pretty much everything. He even has a restraining order against her. That morning, she showed up at his office with the tea. Said it was a peace offering, and asked if he would lift the order. Things degenerated into a shouting match and he threw her out. He says I'm the only one who's consumed any of the tea — I saw it on the corner of his desk and asked for some. I was hungry, and a little nervous; I thought that might help."

Charlie stopped to take a sip from the bottle of water on the table and Don tapped his foot impatiently.

"So," Charlie said after he swallowed, "the detectives took his tea and my tea and dropped it off at their lab. Then they went to interview the wife." His face fell a little. "This part is actually kind-of depressing."

"What? Why?"

"She caved. It wasn't like the movies or television at all…or even like the cases I've helped you on. There was no serious investigating to be done, no algorithims to design, no interrogation in the box. She just looked up, saw the detectives and their badges, and burst into tears. She said her contact swore to her that the stuff he was putting into the tea was untraceable, and would make her husband temporarily psycho. She intended to use whatever he did under the influence as leverage to get the kids. She was hanging out on campus, waiting for something to happen. Then she heard about…my flight. She already knew that I worked in Sorenson's department, so she put two and two together. She assumed they knew a lot more than they did already, when they showed up in her office. She was terrified they were coming after her for attempted murder. The whole thing was over…well, for me anyway…before 1 o'clock."

Don sighed and sat back in his chair. "Incredible." He shook his head, as if to clear cobwebs. "The doctors don't expect more problems with it, do they? It's out of your system?"

Charlie dropped his eyes. "I'm sure it is. I didn't have that much...well... I guess it depends on how strongly the tea was laced. Dr. Stedman wants me to come in tomorrow morning for another blood test. He said the lingering effects could account for some of my short-term memory problems, and extreme mood swings."

Don couldn't stop it anymore. He smiled. "Well. This is all…great, Charlie. I knew you didn't jump off that roof."

Charlie didn't smile back, but regarded Don seriously. "No. But I said what I said, up there. Larry was here last night, and he confirmed it. I said what I said to you the other night at dinner, too."

Don's smile faltered. "Didn't you just say that the doctor said there could be lingering effects?"

Charlie raised a hand to push back a stray curl. When his hand dropped, his eyes were dark. "I know how I feel, Don, and I know how long I've felt that way."

Don leaned forward a little, arms on the table. "Tell me."

Charlie's eyes strayed to the portrait of their mother on the wall, then to his lap top, and finally back to Don. "I do not remember a time," he started, "when the numbers were silent. No matter what else I am doing – teaching, presenting a theory to the team, reading a text – hell, mowing the lawn – it's as if I'm doing it next to the ocean. There is a constant roar in the background. Constant. Sometimes, the tide comes in, and the roar gets louder, or rolls off me in waves. That's what happened with Mom. And with that bank case, the Charm School Boys. Mom…Mom used to help me sleep. She would come and try to talk louder than the ocean, until all I heard was her voice. And she taught me little tricks, so I could try to relax." Charlie suddenly chuckled. "Be reassured here, Don. This is why I have always been so fond of a hot bath at night."

Don smiled with him, and Charlie continued. "There were other things. Late-night koi contemplation. Warm milk. Visualization, even. All those tricks stopped working long ago. I'm not just exhausted because we worked a bad case and I'm fact checking for both Larry and Dr. Haven. I'm exhausted because I need some new tricks." A look of dawning comprehension passed over his face. "In fact, I'm sure that's why I take on as much as I do – or at least part of it. I'm _trying_ to exhaust myself. Take this week, for example. Gotta tell ya Don, I've been sleeping great. The tide is out."

They both sat silently for a while, digesting Charlie's confessions. Don felt a little…ignorant. He had grown up in this house, and he was five years older than Charlie. He certainly should have been observant enough to notice an entire ocean between his brother's ears. He drummed his fingers on the table. "I suppose suggesting a vacation would be too simple?"

Charlie grinned lopsidedly. "Pretty sure I'd have to take my head with me, Don." He smiled broader and met Don's eyes fully. "Remember a couple of years ago, when I drove down the coast for a few days over Spring Break?"

Don nodded. "Right. Was that the time you were supposed to be gone all week and were gone two nights?"

Charlie slapped his hand on the table, startling Don. "Exactly! Know why? The first day, I stopped before dark at a small motel right on the beach. I left my stuff in the room, grabbed a flashlight and a blanket, and went to sit on the beach and watch the sun set. Relaxing, right?"

"Is this a trick question?"

Charlie snorted. "At 4 a.m., the batteries in the flashlight went dead. I had been calculating the grains of sand visible in a typical two-mile section of California beach. All sorts of variables. Wind speed, foot traffic, sand density, the amount of beach that is under water, and for how long…and where exactly under the water 'the beach' ends and the sand is considered ocean floor."

Don shivered, remembering Charlie on the roof, begging him to tell him where the sky began. Charlie seemed to deflate a little. "Anyway. When the batteries died I dragged myself to the room, slept for 20 hours, and drove home. Completely aware, with every passing mile, of something: How many seagulls will appear between mileposts 30 and 33 during high tide on a spring day, for example."

Don stared at him. "It's always been like that? As long as you can remember?"

"Unless something happens. I'm sick, or I finally become so exhausted I faint, or something."

"That…That…Sucks."

Charlie grinned again. "Yeah, well, it can get old – fast. The thing is, I know I didn't try to kill myself. I never even thought about it…but I can see some value to what that doctor at the hospital said. Damn, there were so many of them…"

"Simpson? The shrink?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes. I still don't think I need the kind of therapy he recommended. Maybe just a few sessions with somebody though. Since Mom died, it's been worse, because there's no-one who sees me going under. She used to know before I did. I think I need someone to help me learn how to manage my own…I don't know…internal ocean?"

Don wanted to apologize for not noticing, he wanted to offer to be more attentive in the future – and yet he had to agree with Charlie. He needed to be able to help himself, and learn how to ask for outside help when he needed it. "I guess…that sounds like a good idea," he finally offered. "I want to tell you I'll try to do a better job, too. As your brother, I mean."

Charlie smiled at him again, fondly. "Can't do much better, Don. You're pretty damn good at it already."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 14**

Charlie was only halfway through the boxes from his office when it came time, a little over three weeks later, to lose the cast on his arm. He was overjoyed at the increased mobility this provided him, and that created a spurt of energy that both enabled him to finally finish all the work – and brought the tide of the ocean rolling in, again. Don had been back to full duty for a just over a week, when he stared at Charlie over the dinner table one night and noticed that he looked pretty weary for a guy who wasn't supposed to be working that summer.

He swallowed a masticated carrot. "So how's it going, Charlie? You look a little tired."

Alan's head shot up and he studied his youngest. "Did you stay in the garage half the night again? Is that starting again, Charlie?"

"I had a new theory; I'm following a new line of thought in the Cognitive Emergence work."

Don glanced at Alan, who looked away in disappointment. He spoke quietly to Charlie. "No new tricks, yet?"

Charlie raised his head. "Actually, I spent some time with a cognitive behavioralist. I think he can provide some invaluable information with my research. That's an unexpected bonus. He also taught me something called the 'ABCs of Irrational Behavior'. This was just a couple of days ago. I haven't actually tried it, yet."

"Well if you're up all night listening to the ocean, you might as well spend some time on it," Don suggested.

Alan looked up again, confused. "What are you talking about? We can't hear the ocean from here."

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A few evenings later, Don parked the SUV in the driveway and started for the kitchen entrance. He waved at his father, who was looking out the kitchen window. Alan waved back, and pointed. Don looked; He saw Charlie sitting on the bench near the koi pond, his crutches on the ground near his feet. Don looked back at his Dad, who gave a shrug and backed off from the window.

Don crossed the law and stood behind Charlie. He crossed his arms. "So what's up?"

Charlie's head shot up and his shoulders tensed. He saw Don and they immediately relaxed, again. "I never hear you coming. Never see you coming. How do you do that?"

Don smiled and sat on the bench next to Charlie. "In my spare time, I am known as 'The Shadow'. The other superheroes and I have a planning meeting tonight, so I was hoping for a hot meal first."

Charlie grinned, shaking his head a little. "Will Mr. Science be there?"

Don was mightily affronted. "Super _Heroes_ Charlie, not Super _Geeks_. Those are your people." He stopped, hoping he hadn't crossed a line with that one.

Charlie looked at him. "My geeks," he said, "could reduce your heroes to water with one really well designed equation."

Don laughed out loud and held up his hands. "Okay, okay, as long as we stay in our marked territories, there's room enough for all of us. No need to get cranky."

Charlie smiled and looked back at the koi. "And what is the purpose of tonight's summit between the Geek King and the Ambassador of Hero?"

"Hey." Don was affronted, again. "You get to be a King, while I am only an Ambassador?"

"Comes with dipolmatic immunity," Charlie offered, so Don wore his ambassadorship proudly.

"Just saw you sitting out here is all." He indicated Charlie's casted foot. "One more week, huh?"

Charlie sighed and nodded. "This is good."

"Anything else new? What's that ABC stuff you mentioned the other night at dinner?"

Charlie looked thoughtfully at Don. "Do you want to know what it is, or do you want to help me?"

"Both," answered Don without hestitation. "Although if I am going to help, I should probably know what it is first."

Charlie smiled and looked back at the koi. "Okay. Basically, I'm supposed to do it on paper, in three columns, but I've been partitioning my mind, instead."

Don groaned. "Only you, Chuck."

"Shut-up. Do you want to hear this, or not?"

"Yes, yes. Go ahead."

Charlie shifted on the bench. "Okay. Well, I guess it helps to think of things lineally. Or consecutively. Depends on how you arrange your columns. 'A' is an activity; 'B' is a belief you associate with that activity, and 'C' are the consequences of that belief. After you look at all that, either alone or with the help of a therapist or someone else you trust, you can reframe 'B' and 'C'. Sort-of."

Don tracked the largest koi across the pond. "Um…maybe it would make more sense if we did one. Can we do one?"

Charlie checked quickly to see if he was serious. "I think it's supposed to someone a little more objective."

Don looked a little disappointed. "Oh. I guess that makes sense."

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Finally, Charlie sighed and started talking, again. "We can do one. But you can't interrupt me, when I get to the 'B' and 'C' part. You have to let me say it. And when we're reframing, pretend you're talking to someone else. David, maybe."

"How will that help?"

Charlie ran a hand through his hair. "Well, you wouldn't throw a childhood memory at David, or tell him he's an idiot."

Don pulled his attention from the koi and frowned at Charlie's profile. "Do I tell you you're an idiot? That's terrible."

Charlie shrugged. "That's a brother. I'm just saying. For this, don't be my brother."

Don turned so that he was almost sideways on the bench, facing Charlie, who glanced at him, startled. Don raised an eyebrow. "What? I would look at David if he was talking to me. I would watch his face. I'm an investigator."

Charlie looked quickly away. "Oh. Oh." He inhaled deeply. "Okay. Got one. The activity: Dad moves out. The belief – or rather, beliefs, in this case: I do such a poor job taking care of the house that it makes him crazy. When we are here together, he finds me annoying. He doesn't want to live with me because he's finding it difficult to live with me and love me at the same time. He's tired of taking care of me. The consequences: I hardly ever see him, anymore, because he discovers a happier life without me. I never eat well, anymore. And I never see…my brother…because he only comes over now to spend time with my Dad, and because he likes to eat well, himself. So when Dad moves out, I lose two for the price of one." Charlie snuck a glance at Don, surprised he had been able to keep silent for so long.

Don looked stricken, but was careful to keep his voice professional. "I can respond, now?"

Charlie nodded, a little fearfully, still watching him.

"Okay. Repeat that first belief?"

"Um….I do a bad job taking care of the house?"

Don nodded. "Precisely. I'm just looking around here. Paint looks good. Lawn looks nice. Koi look well-fed. There appears to be electricity – I see lights in the kitchen. Are you saying your father is responsible for all of this?"

Charlie smiled a little at Don's attempt to disassociate himself as his brother. "Well, no. He helped me paint last year after I bought the house, but it was my idea. And we have a gardener, now. Dad used to do it all, but when I bought the house I hired someone to come once a week. The electric bill is on the automatic withdrawal plan – like cable, now that I've had it hooked up again after I forgot to pay for a few months. I guess…I guess I don't always do things the way he would – like hiring the gardener instead of doing it myself. He probably was a better homeowner."

"Has he said that?"

Charlie frowned. "Closer than you think. He has pointed out how he managed to do everything around the house _and_ be married _and_ work _and_ have two children, at my age."

Don struggled to maintain his professional demeanor. "Okay. For the sake of argument, let's say he was a better homeowner. Has he said that you are so bad, he can't even watch? Did he list that among his reasons for moving?"

Charlie considered. "No," he finally said. "I can't assume that he feels that way if he never actually said that."

Don smiled. "Exactly. Belief two?"

Charlie searched the second compartment of his brain. "He finds me annoying."

"Same thing," Don said immediately. "Are you assuming that belief for him?" He suddenly got worried. "He's never called you annoying – in a serious way, I mean – right?"

Charlie perked up. "No. And now I remember, when he first started talking about selling the house last year, I asked if I was difficult to live with. He said 'no', and that I wasn't here enough to be a difficult roommate."

Don nodded. "Good. Good, then. We're up to belief number three."

"Um…he can't live with me and love me? Yeah. And he's tired of taking care of me. That kind-of all goes together."

Don had a difficult time thinking of something objective he could say without referring to things that had actually happened. Charlie was starting to look worried, so he rushed in. "Describe your father," he finally said.

Charlie, nonplussed, stared at him. "What?"

"You heard me."

For the first time since they had started the exercise, Charlie looked back at the koi. "Well, he's kind. Generous. Very loving, and forgiving. He's intelligent, and strong – emotionally and physically. He's funny, he has a dry wit." Even in profile, Don could see a look of comprehension pass Charlie's face. "He worries, about my brother and I, but he tells us that we will all take care of each other, no matter what happens. And we always have." He looked back at Don and smiled slowly. "Damn. You're good at this."

Don smiled back. "Thank-you. Wait until you see my bill." Charlie laughed, and Don forced him back to the conversation. "Now. As far as 'C'. I don't know your father, of course, but I cannot fathom the man you just described dropping out of your life, no matter where he lived. In my mind, I see him maintaining close contact with you. In my head, I see him filling your freezer with food."

Charlie nodded. "Yes. I think you're probably right."

Don thought about asking Charlie to describe him, next, but quickly chickened out. "Your brother. He never spends any time with you, alone, without your father?"

Charlie reddened, and looked away again. "That probably wasn't entirely fair. Sometimes we have lunch. Usually that's related to work, though. We occasionally work together."

Don wondered if he could talk the earth into swallowing him whole. "Okay. Well…do you always wait to hear from him first? How often do you initiate non-working, non-father contact?"

Charlie turned his head back toward Don. It was getting difficult to see him in the dusk, but his voice was strong. "You're right. Absolutely. I should be more proactive, not just wait for things to happen."

Don wasn't sure where to go next, he wasn't sure if they were done with the 'C'-word, yet. "Is it time for reframing?"

Charlie nodded. "I think so. Activity: Dad moves out."

"Belief?"

"To my knowledge, Dad has never lied to me. I should accept the things he tells me about his desire for a little autonomy – for both of us. I also have no reason to avoid honesty, with Dad. I can tell him how I honestly feel about his moving."

Don was impressed with this whole A-B-C thing. "Good. Consequences?"

"I have to work a little harder, to make sure that the family stays close. It's not all up to Dad, or my brother. Maybe, I grow a little."

Don dropped his professional alter-ego and picked up brotherhood again. He smiled broadly at Charlie. "Hell, kid. I think you already have."

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**A/N: ABC is an actual practice in cognitive behavioral therapy (not that I would know). May Charles ABC himself silly. (Don't worry, one more chapter.)**


	15. Chapter 15

**The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.**

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**Chapter 15**

About ten days after the koi pond discussion, Alan dropped Charlie off for his second day of physical therapy and went on to volunteer at a soup kitchen. Don picked Charlie up and the brothers went to lunch together. Charlie still leaned heavily on his crutches, but Don noticed as they approached the restaurant that he was putting some weight on his ankle, now.

The restaurant was busy, and after they placed their orders, Don watched Charlie down an entire glass of water and hoped the wait would not be as long as he was afraid it might be. He still had to get Charlie to the soup kitchen to meet Alan before he could go back to work. He tried not to worry about it, and reminded himself to be supportive.

Don tried to make conversation. "So…Megan and Larry are pretty much a done deal, now. I don't know why that's so hard for me to wrap my head around."

He waited for a comment from Charlie, but he just looked distractedly at a point somewhere over Don's shoulder. Don cleared his throat and reached across the table to bump his brother's hand. "Chuck. Pay attention."

Charlie started and focused his eyes on Don. "What? I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Don smiled a little. "Having a little trouble with the ocean, today?"

To his relief, Charlie smiled back. "No. Actually, I found something that makes more noise."

Don found that interesting. He lifted an eyebrow. "What?"

Charlie leaned forward a little and spoke in a stage whisper. "Bro. My ankle. Therapy's a bitch – and so am I for the rest of the day after it's over."

Don laughed so loudly that other diners turned to look at him. He ignored them. "Sorry. I don't mean to laugh at your pain. Think about something else. Tell me about the alphabet."

Charlie looked momentarily confused. "The alpha…Oh." He grinned. "You mean my ABCs." Don nodded. "I actually have some news on that front," Charlie started.

"Do tell."

"I've been thinking. The more I push myself intellectually, the better I can balance everything, and fall into bed tired enough to sleep without pushing myself too far physically."

Don nodded. "Makes sense."

Charlie shifted in his chair. "So. I've been thinking about teaching." He saw the look on Don's face and hastened to clarify himself. "I love it, I do. I would never give it up entirely. But as a full-time, tenured professor, I'm required to teach certain classes – over, and over, and over. I think I could be doing more challenging things with my time." He inhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. "I won't be returning to CalSci full-time. I'll be talking with Dr. Sorenson in a few weeks about serving as an adjunct professor. I would teach one class a semester, almost exclusively upper division and graduate-level courses. I might also enter such an arrangement with one of the other local universities – UCLA, USC and CalTech have pretty much standing offers – but no more than one more class." He stopped to sip the water a waitress had refilled.

"What would you do instead?"

Charlie put down the glass. "My own research, of course; and, I would like to spend more time consulting; with several different agencies. Some of that would involve some travel. The CDC likes everything done on-site in their labs in Atlanta, for instance. Bob has been after me to spend some time in D.C. on a joint project with Homeland Security."

Don shook his head a little. Bob. He would never get used to hearing Charlie call the Director of the NSA 'Bob'.

"Of course I would still be available to the FBI," Charlie continued. "More so, in fact. Locally, and other offices. Even when I travel, I'd always be available to you via telephone, internet and video conference. Larry's been a big help on several cases, also. He can always pinch hit when necessary…"

Don smiled. "I'm not worried about that, Charlie."

Charlie looked at him earnestly. "I've thought about the house. Dad says he's decided not to move, but I don't want him to be stuck taking care of everything. That's why he sold to me in the first place." He looked a little embarrassed. "Consulting…provides a generous income. I thought I could hire a house manager or something, to act sort-of like a landlord. If something needs attention while I'm out of town, Dad could just call and report it, and the manager would deal with the details. He – or she – could just keep a general eye on things, too. There are people who do that, now. Insured, and everything."

Don was impressed at how far Charlie had thought this through already. "Still," he offered. "I could help you interview potential managers, if you'd like my cop instinct working mojo for you."

"That would be great," Charlie answered, leaning back a little as a chicken salad appeared in front of him. When the waitress had finished serving them both, he looked a little warily at Don. "What do you think?"

Don contemplated his cheeseburger. Just the way he liked it – he could see the pink juices flowing onto the plate and soaking into some fries. He almost salivated. He looked over at Charlie. "I think it sounds great. I'd miss you, so I hope you don't travel too much."

"I told you, Larry can help," reiterated Charlie.

Don corrected the genius. "I don't mean we'd miss you at the office. That too, of course – but I mean that I would miss you, as a brother." Charlie reddened and Don grinned at him fondly. "Face it, Chuck. You are as rare as this cheeseburger."

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**END**

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**A/N: Thanks to Tanager36 for this story idea, and to my loyal and generous readers.(And for the record: I hate rare meat.)**


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